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#i saw her standing there on that stage

omgeto · 8 months

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☆ GIMME, GIMME MORE — GETO SUGURU

summary: you were just a stripper who had no desire to fuck with any customers, but there was just one you couldn’t shake. once he laid his eyes on you, he wanted you. and with every little piece of you he got — he wanted more.

wc: 6.5k (my longest fic ever, lord help me) its a lot of plot with a nice chunk of smut

cw: afab!stripper!reader, angst to fluff, smutty smut, you fuck in his car, you fuck in a private room (i remembered condoms this time) so mdni sassy geto, if you squint.

an: listen to this song to feel the vibe, I love me some geto and I’ve yet to do a fic for him so I hope you enjoy this one.

the entrance to the high-end club exudes an air of opulence, with its glimmering lights and sophisticated clientele. geto suguru strolls in alongside his best friend, gojo satoru, the low hum of the music washing over them. the glances around, a mixture of boredom and detachment etched on his face. this isn't really his scene, but gojo had insisted on a night out.

as they find their way to a table, surrounded by plush seating and an atmosphere of indulgence, geto's attention wanders. the dancers on stage move with practised sensuality, but his gaze remains distant. until, that is, a change in the music's tempo signals a shift in the performance.

the spotlight illuminates the stage, revealing a figure that seems to command the room's attention effortlessly. you move with a fluid grace, your body swaying in time with the sultry rhythm. the way your hips move, the confidence in your eyes, it's as if you own the room. gojo's earlier detachment gives way to fascination he can't deny.

he couldn’t take his eyes off the way you were sliding down the pole, leaning forward in his seat to see more of you. the star shaped nipple covers and the gem encrusted thong you were wearing left nothing to the imagination. but still he couldn’t help but picture it all off of you, leaning forward in his seat to try and get a closer look.

gojo nudges him playfully. "not bad, right?"

geto’s response is a low, appreciative whistle as his eyes remain locked on the captivating dancer. his heart races as he watches you command the stage, a magnetic presence that draws him in despite his earlier disinterest. he couldn’t help but feel that you were dancing for him, call him cocky but the way your eyes were locked on him as you threw your ass back against the pole — he knew that was just for him. he looked around the room and saw that everyone else was just as captivated by you as he was.

“she’s the best performer here, she doesn’t do private dances, she doesn’t even do a long set,” gojo brags to geto but he’s barely listening, his eyes too focused on you, “this is as much of her as we can get.”

as the performance reaches its climax, geto’s lips curve into a slow smile. gojo’s grin is knowing. "looks like someone's found their muse." geto’s tears his gaze away just as you exit the stage, his interest piqued.

“you’ve got a request,” your boss announces insistent and smug, cornering you immediately after you exit the stage.

“you know i don't do requests, i come here, i do a 30 minute set and i leave remember?” you retort, stepping to walk straight past him, but he stops you, standing in front of you to block your path.

“this is a request you can’t refuse,” he adds, a smirk forming on his lips. your eyes narrow at his words, already feeling a sense of unease.

“oh i think i can,” your intention is clear as you step forward, intending to brush past him and continue on your way. but he remains unmoved, determined to stand in your path, his stance a physical barrier you can't easily circumvent.

“there’s a special guest tonight, someone who’s willing to pay handsomely for a private performance,” he explains, his tone implying much more than his words reveal.

you pause, folding your arms, sceptical. “how much are we talking about?”

he names a figure that makes your eyebrows shoot up. It’s a significant sum, the kind that could cover your bills for months, or even help you save for a future beyond the club. but still, you hesitate.

“like i said, i don't take request,” you conclude, brushing past your boss.

“i don’t think this particular patron will like that,” he tries to argue, following directly behind you.

“ask me if i care,” with those words, you step forward once more, your purpose clear as you attempt to carry on. but his presence remains a persistent shadow at your side, his attempts to sway you far from over.

his argument falters momentarily, but he regains his composure quickly, his tone becoming insistent. "this particular patron isn't accustomed to denial. I don't think he'll take kindly to it."

a defiant smirk tugs at your lips, your patience waning as you find yourself driven further by your own principles. "well, here's a thought—perhaps he should learn."

with that final retort, you pivot on your heel, striding purposefully toward the locker room. the temptation of the significant sum and the vague promise of this special patron tug at the edges of your thoughts, but your determination remains resolute.

“if you don’t do it your fired.” he calls out after you, a desperate final attempt to get you to agree.

you knew you were going against your better judgement, but you turn back to face your boss and with a deep sigh you agree, “fine, i’ll do it. but you owe me.”

with simmering frustration bubbling beneath the surface, you push open the door to the private room, your entrance punctuated by the subtle swish of the heavy fabric. the air within was charged, a blend of anticipation and tension, as you found geto suguru lounging on the plush sofa, his presence an unwelcome sight that intensified your irritation.

your words come out abruptly, a firm reminder to both him and yourself, “i don’t fuck clients,” you state, a touch of defensiveness in your tone. you wanted to establish your boundaries, to make it clear you wouldn’t be swayed easily.

he chuckles, catching you off guard, his amusement evident. “thats nice…” he adds, with a hint of playfulness, “i just wanted to talk anyways.”

“to talk?” you question, surprised at his request, as you knew what went on in the private rooms and talking was far from that.

“yeah, just wanna get to know you,” he explains casually, his eyes studying you.

“i don’t do time wasters,” you complain, ready to leave the room, “and i don’t have time to waste.”

“even if im paying for your time?” he bargains, raising his eyebrows, “im sure your boss told you the pretty expensive bill im footing just for your time.”

crossing your arms, you met his gaze with a steady one of your own. “look, mr…?”

“just call me suguru,” he interjected with a smile that held a hint of charm.

“alright, suguru,” you continued, your tone resolute, “i'm not here to entertain idle chit-chat. i’ll dance for you for an hour and thats it. just abide by the club rules, otherwise im out.”

“why don’t you take private requests?” he inquiries, disregarding your comments.

“because i don’t have to,” you respond nonchalantly, “why are you so persistent that you pay for my time. there’s tons of other great strippers in this club.”

“because i want you.” he shrugs.

“well too bad,” you mock, “just because you have money doesn’t mean you can buy everything.”

“everyone’s got a price,” he argues, chuckling softly, a condescending tone underling his words, “ah, but isn't that the way the world works? everything has a price, even principles.”

the audacity of his statement ignited a fire within you, your voice heated with defiance and scorn. “you think im for sale? you think i’d compromise my integrity just for a fat stack of bills? you’re delusional.”

“oh but isn’t your integrity already compromised,” he teases, raising his eyebrows, “is miss, ‘i dont do private dances,’ not in a private dance with me right now?”

“you know wha–”

“i changed my mind. i don’t want to talk anymore,” there was a shift in his tone, amusement danced in his eyes, “strip for me.”

you were pissed. but you couldn’t actually argue – he was right. he was paying for your time and he could spend it anyway he wanted to. you’d rather have him silently watching you anyways than talking to you.

the music blared through the speakers in the room, and you immediately straddled geto, you could feel his dick harden underneath you. the only thing separating you two was the thin layer of fabric of your thong.

you could see him smirk at you, but you ignored him, grinding your hips down on him to the beat of the music. his starts to trail down your sides, but you give him a pointed look reminding him of the rules – no touching. he surrenders his hands placing them besides his head, content in watching you dance on his lap.

you moved off of him, using the pole that was in the room, his eyes stayed fixed on you. you wanted to put on a show for him, so you move your body expressing a mix of sensuality and power, your eyes lock onto his, daring him to challenge you further, to push your boundaries even more.

the hour was eventually up, and geto didn’t say anything as he left, he just leaves a fat stack of bills on the table, and for some reason you couldn’t bite your tongue, “is that it? you’re just going to leave?”

“well the hours up, no?” he responds, checking his watch, “and, i’ve paid you for your time.” you couldn’t argue with that, so you remain silent watching as he turns his back on you to leave the room.

“suguru,” you call out, getting him to pause, “wait.”

“i thought you didn’t fuck clients,” he smirks, coming up from in between your thighs, “but i am not complaining”

“s-shut up,” you exhale, you’d like to believe that you didn’t expect this to happen, but you knew that was a lie. you didn’t get far out of the club, in fact you didn’t make it out of the parking lot. the back of geto’s car seemed to be perfect with the way he was eating you out.

the feeling of geto sucking on your clit, had your head empty. his head being pressed between your thighs makes your back arch as you push up against his face. he laps against your folds, drowning in your wetness.

“‘i don’t do private dances,’” he mocks your previous words, amused with himself, “oh if only you could see yourself now.” he enjoyed you like this, pinned under him, your pussy dripping all over his face, you were a writhing mess; no longer complaining to him about his actions, you were reduced down to moans and incoherent sentences, the only thing he could hear clearly was his name.

“suguru ah s-shit,” you curse, as he presses down on your clit, “do you always talk this much?” you tangle your fingers in his hair, guiding his face closer in your pussy, his nose deep in your arousal. he was practically inhaling you, swirling his tongue deep inside, trying to taste every inch of you.

“‘m close suguru,” you whine, thrust up against his face aiming to reach your peak on your own.

“calm down princess,” he teases, pulling his lips away from your pussy, “didn’t know you were this eager.” he presses his lips down on yours, making you taste yourself as his hand goes behind your neck to hold you in place. “see how sweet you can be?”

he takes his dick out of his pants, quickly putting on a condom, not even giving you much time to think before he’s slamming into your cunt. your eyes widen as your pussy stretches, and geto can only bite his lip as he feels you clench around him.

“you feel so good, y’know that right” he murmurs, forcing himself into you deeper, “so fuckin’ tight.”

he was merciless, gripping his hands on your tits, as he pistons out of you. he could only focus on how your cunt tightens around him with every push. you were pushing yourself down on him, fucking him right back. you didn’t care for his praise, you just wanted to cum.

“‘you’re t-too much, i-it’s too much”

“but you’re taking me so well,” he argues, with a grin. peppering kissing against your neck as he fucks you to a hilt. your hands find their way back into his hair, pulling and tugging at it as you moan out his name.

his dick twitches inside you as you call at his name, you could feel that he was about to cum. his strokes were getting sloppier, and his mouth went from biting to sucking on your neck. you could feel yourself about to climax, clawing at his back, as he continues to hit your spot.

“suguru, i’m about to–”

“cum with me,” he demands, swiftly pulling out of and leaving his cum all over your stomach. you release onto his car seats, your cum spilling out of your pussy, pooling into his car seats.

after coming down off your high, you come to your senses. “this doesn’t change anything.” you remove yourself out of his hold, pushing him off you.

“you really gonna say that after i gave you the best time of your life?”

"'best time of my life?'" you echo, a smirk tugging at your lips as you gather your belongings, "someone's cocky."

“i'm starting to feel you like me that way,” he teases, his words a playful challenge.

you roll your eyes, not willing to engage in his banter any longer. "goodbye, suguru," you reply, opening his car door. "don't return to the club."

“oi princess,” he calls after you, “you left your thong.”

“keep it.” you wink as you step outside of the car, “think of it as a souvenir.”

“why would i need that, when im going to see you again?” you don't respond, shutting the car door with a smile on your face as part of you hoped that he did return.

geto did see you again, practically every day after that. it became a consistent routine, he’d book a private room for a couple hours, you’d fuck, you’d talk and see each other whenever he wanted. he came when he needed you – and he always needed you.

as a stripper, you’ve always had one rule ‘don’t fuck with clients,’ but the moment that geto suguru laid his eyes on you – you were his. there was something about him that made him different from all the other patrons, although they were all snobby rich guys, the way that geto carried himself made you feel like he was worth breaking your rule. or at least that's what you told yourself.

you didn’t just fuck each other – sometimes he just wanted to talk to you, to ask you about your day, to get to know you. and you could tell he was starting to catch feelings that you weren’t prepared to deal with. however, despite him being rich, there was something endearing in knowing that he went out of his way, every day, to pay just to see you. even when you were mean and standoffish.

you always spoke for longer than you expected – longer than he even paid for. geto surprised you, he was actually interested in talking with you. as the minutes turned into an hour, the conversations flowed in unexpected directions. you found yourselves sharing stories, discussing interests, and laughing at each other’s jokes. geto’s charming demeanour and genuine interest gradually chipped away at your initial reservations.

“did you always want to be a stripper?” he asks, you had just finished fucking and he still had an hour left of paid time with you, and he was going to use it.

“do you always pillowtalk?” you retort smartly, evading his question.

“who would’ve thought you’d still be this bitchy after being fucked so good,” he jokes, pulling you into his hold that you quickly ease into, “girl just answer the question.”

“i don’t know,” you sigh, “i needed the money, i loved to dance, so being a stripper was a no brainer to me.”

“do you like working here?”

you shift slightly in his embrace, your fingers idly trace patterns on his chest. "liking it? well, it pays the bills, if that's what you're asking."

his fingers brush against your hair in a soothing gesture. "but is that all? just a means to an end?"

you sigh, a mixture of vulnerability and honesty in your tone. "i mean, it's not like i dreamt of becoming a stripper when I was a kid. but it's a job that's allowed me some financial stability, even if it's temporary."

geto's voice was gentle, his curiosity evident. "temporary for how long?"

you hesitate for a moment, contemplating how much to reveal. "i don’t know, i haven’t thought that far. i just wanna make money.”

"well, if you ever get tired of dancing, i can always buy the club for you." his response was unexpected, a mixture of humour and absurdity. “i think you’d make a good boss.”

“ha, if you did that i’d know that you’re truly obsessed with me,” you chuckle, his words catching you off guard. “i know you enjoy this place, but that's a little extreme, don't you think?"

"maybe, but you're worth it." he grins, his playful demeanour unwavering. "you're more than what you do here, you know."

a soft, ironic chuckle escapes your lips. "funny, coming from someone who's always here."

his grip on you tightens slightly, his voice holding a trace of seriousness. "perhaps I come here because I want to be around you. not just the dancer."

it was as if his presence had chipped away at the walls you had erected, leaving you exposed to a whirlwind of feelings you hadn't anticipated.his gaze, unwavering and intense, held yours as if searching for a sign—a spark of recognition that you too were experiencing this undeniable pull.

"suguru," you begin, your voice a whisper that barely bridged the distance between you, "this... whatever it is between us, it can't be as simple as you wanting to be around me."

he smiles softly, a gentle curve of his lips that holds both understanding and patience. "you're right, it's not simple. but isn't that what makes it worth exploring?" his words were a delicate melody, an invitation to step beyond the boundaries you had created.

you met his gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and longing. the weight of his presence was undeniable, a force that had drawn you in and left you yearning for more. but your insecurities whispered caution, reminding you of the differences that set you apart.

"suguru," you admit, your voice softer now, "i've never let anyone get this close. it's complicated, and I don't even know where this could lead."

“it doesn’t matter where it will leads,” he says, “what matters is that you like me? right?”

his words hung in the air, a direct question that pierced through the layers of uncertainty and vulnerability that surrounded you. the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of his question settling like a delicate veil over the intimate space you shared.

your breath caught, and for a moment, time itself seemed to pause. the truth, the raw honesty that had eluded you, stood before you—bold and unyielding. you looked into his eyes, his gaze unwavering and patient, as if he was giving you the space to find your own truth within the question.

your voice, soft and tinged with a mixture of trepidation and longing, finally found its way to the surface. "i..." you pause, the words catching in your throat. but in the depth of his gaze, you found a strange sense of comfort, an assurance that you could be honest without judgement.

"maybe," you admit, your voice a whisper that carries the weight of your emotions. "maybe i do like you, suguru." the admission felt like a release, letting go of the barriers you had constructed to protect yourself.

a slow smile curved his lips, a genuine expression that lit up his features. it was as if your honesty had unlocked a door, allowing both of you to step closer to a truth that had been waiting to surface. he replies with deep content, "maybe is a good start,"

the room felt charged with an energy you couldn't quite define, a tension that simmered beneath the surface. your eyes held his, a silent conversation that spoke volumes—an acknowledgement of the unspoken connection that had grown between you.

as you lay there, cocooned in the aftermath of both physical intimacy and heartfelt conversation, an internal struggle brewed within you. your heart was stirred by the sincerity of geto's words, by the connection that seemed to grow stronger with every interaction. yet, amidst the warmth and comfort, a sense of bittersweet uncertainty gnawed at you.

the boundary you had set, the rule you had vowed to uphold, wavered under the weight of emotions you hadn't anticipated. you were drawn to geto, but a tangle of reservations held you back.

in the embrace of the night, you found yourself torn between the allure of a connection you had come to cherish and the lingering fear of what being with him might entail.

“you’re here early,” you comment, seeing geto in his usual seat. at this point, you were practically excited to see him, happy to go to work knowing that he’d show up.

“i guess i thought i’d change things up a bit,” he mutters his tone of voice off, “we’ve got to make this quick, though” he starts to undo his belt, “i’ve only got an hour till my next meeting.”

“wow no talking today?” you ask amused. geto usually is the one that likes to take his time, he always says he prefers to stimulate your mind before anything else, but today was different.

he gives you a pointed look, not bothering to respond so you continue to say, “an hour?” smirking as you straddle his lap, freeing his dick, “i think that’s more than enough time.”

“new outfit?” he muses, pulling at the straps of the lingerie you were wearing. you nod, focusing on stroking his dick, “red’s your colour, i like it. but i’d rather see it off you.” suddenly, he rips off your bra and forces you up to take off your panties. you bend down to take off your heels, but he pauses you, “keep those on.”

“get my fingers wet for me,” he commands, dragging you back onto his lap. you happily comply, taking in two fingers into your warm, pouty mouth. he caresses your jaw as you greedily nibble on his fingers.

he pulls them out thoroughly coated with your saliva and shoves them into your pussy. you gasp at the contact, and crumble into his side but he forces your head up with his hand pressing a rough kiss to your lips.

“w-whats with you today?” you query, as you see the look on geto’s face – something was off with him. although you couldn’t deny the pleasure you were getting from his current roughness, you were used to a gentler geto.

“nothing,” he dismisses you, slipping in another finger into your soaking pussy. his thumb rubs against your clit as his fingers easily glide in and out of you. you felt like you cum off of his fingers alone, you grind down hard against his fingers aiding yourself in reaching your climax. but just as you were nearing, he swiftly removes his fingers landing a fat smack against your clit, “i know i said i had to make it quick, but i didn’t think you’d be this excited.”

geto swiftly puts on a condom, raises you up slightly before slamming you down on his dick. he smiles as your legs wrap around his back, pleased by the sound of your heels clacking together. you shudder as he immediately fills you, your pussy stretching, taking all of him.

he thrusts into you hard, and you try to meet his pace and fuck him back as hard as he was doing to you – but you were no match for him. you were practically a ragdoll as he hammered into you, your arms flinging around his neck to hold yourself up.

“f-fuck,” you moan, clawing at his back, “im gonna cum.”

“hold it,” he demands, continuing to give you strong, relentless strokes. your head falls into his shoulder in submission, you were already gushing all over him, but he keeps going, hard and fast. he lifts up your head, and presses a soft peck against your lips before saying, “cum.”

geto movements turn sloppy as he finishes into the condom. you release all over his dick, shuddering as you feel your peak surge through you. he presses one more kiss to your neck, before you move off of him.

“are you good?” you finally ask him, as you put back on your outfit, “you seemed a little out of it tonight.”

he shifts on his feet, his restlessness palpable as he watches you. "yeah," he mumbles, looking around the room at everything but you, his fingers fumbling with his belt as if seeking something to anchor himself. "i'm alright."

"you sure?" you persist, a touch of concern pushing you to press further. usually, you wouldn't challenge him this way – because whatever he says goes in the time that he pays for. but the stark contrast to his usual demeanour gnaws at your thoughts. "i just want to make sure that you're okay–"

"didn't I say I was alright," he sneers, a defensive edge entering his tone, "it's like you don't listen or something."

“see, there is definitely something wrong with you,” you snap, screwing your face up at his tone, “since the usual geto that walks up in here knows that he’ll have my heel shoved up his asshole before he can talk to me like that.”

your words hang in the air, the charged tension growing thicker as you each hold your ground. he shifts his weight, his gaze flickering toward you briefly before skittering away. the air seems heavy with unspoken words, a tangible unease settling between you.

"i've actually been wondering how long we're going to be doing this for," he finally says, his voice low, almost as if he's reluctant to voice the thought.

“this?” you question, a confused look appears upon your face as you fold your arms. you knew what he was getting at – you just wanted to hear him say it, “you mean my job.”

his gaze finally lifts to meet yours, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "oh, I didn't know it was your job to fuck the customers here. I thought you were just a stripper… not a prostitute."

his words hit like a jolt, a rush of emotion flooding your senses as you absorb their implications. your jaw tightens, a surge of frustration warring with a pang of hurt. "don't be condescending."

he chuckles, the sound a mix of amusement and something else you can't quite place. "why not? you seem to be a pro at it."

“fuck you.”

“y’know, i’ve figured a lot about you in these times we’ve spent together – despite the fact that you don’t talk much,” he starts to say, his grin getting wider with every word, “i’ve worked out that you liked to be chased, you like the fact that I was intrigued enough to make you break your dumb ass rule, you like the fact that even after I managed to break down your pussy walls, I still wanna take your rude ass to dinner.”

his words cut deep, the truth laced with a mocking tone. you glare at him, the mixture of attraction and anger churning within you. he was right in a way – you did like the chase, the thrill of his attention.

"you really have it all figured out, don't you?" you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. his observations stung because they hit too close to the mark. but there was a small part of you that reminded yourself that he was just like the rest of the rich assholes that strolled through the club – and he was proving you right in this very moment.

“well suguru, i’ve worked some things about you.” you sneer, “you’re not the first wealthy lame that has walked into this club demanding more from me than a lap dance and some ego stroking–”

“but i’m the first to get it though aren’t i,” he interrupts, his tone teasing, “what does that say about me?”

you scoff, rolling your eyes as you cross your arms defensively. "it says that you're just like the rest of them, thinking you're different, thinking you're special."

his gaze narrows, the spark of something more intense gleaming in his eyes. "oh, I never said I was different. but I am special, darling, and you know it.” you huff defiantly, sitting back down on the couch – this was an argument you couldn’t. because although he was cocky, he was right.

geto joins you, his hand coming gripping your thigh to get your attention, “look i don't want to be doing this with you, all i want is to spend time out with you outside these four walls,” he says as you gnaw on your lip, considering it, “it would be nice to see you with some clothes on for a change.”

he holds your gaze, his fingers tightening slightly on your thigh as if trying to anchor himself in the midst of the storm of emotions you've stirred. his vulnerability is a stark contrast to the confidence he usually exudes, and it catches you off guard. for a moment, you're caught in a whirlwind of conflicting feelings – his words tugging at something deep within you that you're not quite ready to acknowledge.

but then, you remember the rules you've set for yourself, the boundaries you've fought so hard to maintain. no matter how much he may want to blur those lines, you can't afford to give in.

without giving him a direct answer, you shift slightly, his hand sliding off your thigh as you put some distance between you. your gaze flickers away from him, focusing on some distant point in the room as you compose yourself.

"well, hour's over," you finally say, your tone a touch colder than before. "leave the money where you usually do."

his face falls, the vulnerability replaced by a mixture of disappointment and frustration. he opens his mouth, as if he wants to protest or say something more, but the words seem to die on his lips. the atmosphere between you turns tense once again, the unspoken words and desires hanging heavily in the air.

you don't meet his gaze as you move to gather your things, your actions brisk and efficient. you've mastered the art of detachment, of creating a barrier between yourself and the clients who come and go, no matter how they may affect you.

as you head toward the exit, your heart beats a little faster, a mix of regret and longing that you refuse to entertain. this is how it has to be – business, no matter how much your heart might argue otherwise.

behind you, you hear him sigh, a sound heavy with frustration and resignation. the door clicks shut behind you, the echo of the room's tension lingering in the silence.

he never returned after that. days turned into weeks, and still, geto's presence remained absent from the club. while you hadn't expected him to return, a small part of you had held onto a glimmer of hope that he might. but the weeks turned into months, and the emptiness left by his absence lingered.

life settled back into its routine – the dimly lit stage, the rhythmic music, you danced, you entertained, you put on a show. yet, there was an ache within you, a void that refused to be filled.

as time went on, you found yourself replaying memories of his presence in your mind – the teasing glint in his eyes, the genuine concern in his voice, the way his smile could light up a room. the connection you had shared, brief as it was, had left an indelible mark on your heart.

you missed the daily banter, the way he would surprise you with his insights, the simple pleasure of knowing he was there. the club felt different now, as if it had lost a part of its vibrancy. the nights were quieter, the laughter more subdued, and the glamour that once surrounded your performances felt somewhat dimmed.

despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake the longing that had settled within you. you had a taste of something more with him, a glimpse of a world beyond the club's confines. and now, as you danced under the neon lights, you couldn't help but wonder if you would ever find that connection again.

the longing in your heart grew with each passing day, a constant reminder of what had been and what might have been. yet, even as you missed him, you were grateful for the moments you had shared – moments that had shown you a different side of life, a side you had almost forgotten was possible.

as you stepped into the club again to start your shift, an unsettling feeling settled in your stomach. the club, which was typically alive with the pulsating beat of music and the murmurs of patrons, was eerily quiet. it was as if the very essence of the place had been stripped away, leaving behind an empty void.

confusion crept into your mind as you glanced around, searching for any sign of movement or life. your footsteps echoed in the emptiness, the sound feeling unusually loud against the backdrop of silence. what was going on? had something happened that you weren't aware of?

just as you were about to turn and leave, the sense of unease growing stronger, your eyes land on a figure sitting on the main stage. your heart skipps a beat, a mix of surprise and a rush of emotions flooding over you. it was him – geto. he was here, his presence filling the void that had gripped the club.

he sat there, as if he belonged on that stage, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense as he watches you. the familiar, cocky smirk was ever present on his lips, and despite the confusion that clouds your mind, a warmth spreads through your chest at the sight of him.

as you draw closer, his smirk softens into a genuine smile, a glimmer of something unspoken in his eyes. the air was thick with tension, a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty hanging between you. your heart races in your chest, the space between you charged with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

"suguru," you finally breathe his name, your voice a mere whisper in the stillness.

he stands, his movements fluid and confident, as he closes the distance between you. "hey," he greets, his voice carrying a warmth that echoed through the empty club.

"what are you doing here?" you ask, your voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

“let’s just say there’s new management here”

“you bought the club.” you interrogate, “why?”

“i don’t know, im a guy with a lot of money, so i bought a business.” he shrugs blatantly lying, “that’s what guys like me do…”

"you missed me," you conclude, with a grin.

he nods, "I guess I missed you...or whatever," his facade drops immediately. "it's just after you rejected me, i was pissed. all i wanted to do was to show you that i actually cared about you, for you to give me a chance.”

“and buying the club was the most logical way for you to show me that you care?” you argue. “you didn’t have to do that,” emotions swirled within you – a mixture of surprise, hope, and a spark of something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in a long time. before you could respond, he took a step closer, his fingers gently brushing against yours. it was a simple touch, but it held a promise, a connection that went beyond words.

"why do you always have to be so difficult?” he questions fiercely, “why can’t you just let me show you that i do care about you?”

the weight of his words hung in the air, and as you looked into his eyes, you saw the vulnerability, the sincerity that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. “why do you care?” you retort, almost childishly. you knew that he cared, you knew why he cared – you just had an affinity for making things difficult.

he rolls his eyes at your hard front “if it was anybody else, he would’ve given up a long time ago. but for some reason you were worth it. “because i see you for more than just the standoffish dancer who doesn’t let anyone get to her, im sure you know this by now.” he pulls you closer to him, into a strong hold. “now will you stop fronting and let me have you – all of you?”

you nod with mock reluctance, practically melting in his arms, “but what about my job? I’m not gonna stop being a stripper just because of you.”

“and i wouldn’t even ask you too,” he says quick with reassurance, “besides i find it hot that everyone gets to see you this way but they just can’t have you like i do.” he starts to work your top off your body, unhooking your bra, exposing your tits, “like just imagine, a crowd full of people watching me fuck the shit out of you — wanting you so badly, but not getting to touch.”

“we can’t do this here,” you gasp out as his fingers start to toy with your hard nipples, pinching and twisting them.

“why not?” he smirks, “you’re the boss aren’t you?”

“me, but i thought you bought the club.”

“you’re the one who said if i bought it you’d know that im truly obsessed with you,” he reasons, his lips pressing a kiss under your ear as he whispers, “do you get the picture now?”

“like I said you really d-didn’t have to do that,” you say, “i was the one that fucked things up here. you didn’t have to buy a whole business for get me to tell you that i like you.”

“oh so you do like me,” he comments sarcastically, “who would’ve thought.”

“shut up,” you grumble, swatting at his chest as he laughs, “i am sorry though. i don’t know why i pulled you into my little game, i knew i liked you a long time ago — but I just couldn't bring myself to admitting it. and I'm sorry for that .”

“it’s fine,” he reassures, “i knew dealing with you would be a challenge — granted i didn’t think it would be this hard — but i knew in the end it would be worth it.” his hands lower down your body, shimmying your pants off of you, “so now you gonna show me how sorry you truly are?”

AN: um so this was A LOT my longest fic ever, please lemme know what you thought since I am SOOOO UNSURE ABOU THIS ONE. thank you to my baessss @kazushawty @satoruhour for beta reading (I owe you two my life) also ur boss was pissed asf to find out that the club he owned was bought and given to you when he was the one that basically got you and geto together in the first place. ill make a part two where gojo comes back to the club to see the pretty little stripper who's got all of his besties attention looool jk

#stampedwithanE★#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x reader #geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto angst #jjk angst #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen angst #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x you

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majorblinks · 5 months

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DOWNRIGHT ICONIC (aespa karina)

(smut, male reader, screenwriter you, stranger karina, public sex, rough sex [choking/slapping/biting/spanking/hair-pulling etc], oral, anal, facefucking, titfucking, facial, bondage, degradation, name-calling, other weird stuff, 26k words, it's been 1 million years..., BUT WE'RE SO BACK BABY <3)

Hey, turns out the critics really are onto something:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this.

You aren’t surprised when the nominations are announced. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. You’re this up-and-coming screenwriter, this newly-minted visionary, and - cue the applause - you’ve just made the movie of the year. Clips go viral everywhere; the reviews are calling it extraordinary. They all want to know how you - a relative nobody - managed to pull it off. What’s your secret? What’s your inspiration? Where’d you get this billion-dollar box office idea?

And here’s one version of the truth:

“Well,” you’re quoted saying in every single interview: “honestly, it’s about a girl.”

Everyone eats this up, of course. It’s so fucking romantic.

You’ll tell an abridged version of this story for the rest of your life. A blip in time in early January - a certified slow-motion movie moment. You’ll say things like she was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. You’ll say things like, I know it sounds lame, but that’s how it went. She took my breath away. She fascinated me. I saw her and I don’t think my life has ever been the same.

You’ll never once say her name.

“It’s weird, actually,” you’ll say in an interview after the news of the nominations drops. “Making this movie about her. She’ll last forever there, you know? She’ll always exist in this film, in this one moment in time. She’s in all of it, basically - every scene, every line. It’s all her.”

“You make it sound like she’s dead,” the interviewer will say, all open-mouthed melodrama.

You’ll laugh. “Oh, God, no,” you’ll say. “She’s alive and well.” As if it hasn’t been years since you last saw her face, watching you from down the corridor, looking lost and torn apart and very, very small. “She’s okay. I mean - I think - yeah, she’s okay.”

As if you’d know.

Because here’s another version of the truth:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’re going to stand up on that stage and thank your family and your friends. You’re going to stare at all those faces until they swim together into one golden, glittering blur, and then all you’ll see is her - her dark eyes, her glossy hair, her wrist in your grip, her throat between your fingers - her in your sheets, her smiling in your doorway, her shivering in your shower, her sobbing into her hands, her bleeding in your bed, her walking away. Her, her, her. Immortalized forever in this perfect thing you made, winning awards off the reconstruction of a memory. Art imitating life; reality warped into something magnificent, and beautiful, and better.

And the only thing you’ll feel like doing is throwing up.

Sure, you’ll bask for decades in the thrill of it: the fame, the fortune, the glory; the adoration, the worship, the attention; the eternal, endless love. You’ll be able to look back on your life when you’re decrepit on your deathbed and know that you - brilliant you, utterly superior you - were divinely blessed with earth-shattering success, and no one will ever be able to take that away from you. You made your mark. You meant something. You were the best, for fuck’s sake, and you have the accolades to prove it - you really, really were.

So here’s the full truth - the final bottom line:

You’re going to win an Oscar for this. You’ll live the kind of life people beg God for. You’ll get everything you ever wanted.

It won’t be worth it at all.

First, though, there’s this.

Disturbingly enough, you’re in the romance section of a bookstore when everything starts.

This is really not your genre - that’s the funniest part. Historically, you’re bored to death by the cartoonish pastel covers; you don’t get your kicks from seeing the same delightfully quirky heroines fall for brooding bad boys, or whatever the fuck goes on in those books. You have your standards. You prefer your art a little gritty, a little fucked up, a little more interesting - the kind of thing that can leave you shellshocked in a movie theater, overcome with the sort of full-body, lightning-struck epiphany only truly good work can manage. It’s not a judgment call - you’re not trying to be pretentious. It’s just that you prefer something with some fucking bite.

The second funniest part is this:

You’re pressed against the shelves, surrounded by the cutest, chastest love stories ever told-

“Are you serious?”

-and Karina’s on her knees, about to take your cock down her throat.

Maybe this is what your contemporaries call cinematic irony.

That’s gotta be the only phrase for it, really. The scene itself dripping with classless, crude, erotic filth - the way she ducks her chin to spit on her hand, the slow pump of her fist around you, the rough hum in her mouth at how achingly hard you are - nasty and irredeemable, too fast and too loud. The gross lack of subtlety in her sex appeal: all pale thighs and porn-star tits, the wet pink flash of tongue. Seductive in a way that screams at you. It’d be so easy to write this off as some deliberately controversial opening scene, gory shock value, horror-film suspense - starring you and the slut you’re about to ravage and ruin and potentially leave for dead.

“Baby - are you sure?”

It’d be so easy, if Karina didn’t look like an angel incarnate.

“I mean, you-” You’re stammering. You’ve got both hands in her hair, fingers sliding through the glossy black in petting, soothing motions - your clumsy attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to, if you don’t - we’re in public - I’m not expecting you to - I don’t need it-”

Karina’s fine, sculpted eyebrows twitch upwards. Her lips are a twist of scarlet, distinct and amused. She doesn’t quite smirk, doesn’t give a voice to the sarcasm, but the sentiment is the same - yeah, right.

And then she lowers her mouth to lick.

“Jesus fucking Christ-”

Scratch that, then. This is the funniest part. The most inhumanly beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, debasing herself in public like some sort of desperate common whore - come on, bring in the laugh track.

Not that anyone’s laughing now.

You’re no poet - they’re a few sections over, Plath and Yeats and Dickinson - but Karina’s the kind of thing that makes you understand the motivation completely: only capable of being captured in metaphor, without context, painstakingly interpreted hundreds of years from now by people who will never get this right. All carved-out cheekbones, fluttering lashes; tight fuckable body clad in a little low-cut dress, feet tucked neatly behind her like she’s simulating worship. Dirty and religiously devoted in how she stretches her full glossed lips around your cock and lets your grip tangle in her hair and-

“Karina,” you get out, but her only response is to blink sweetly up at you and suck.

Well, who gives a shit about the poets, anyway? You doubt any of them ever got to fuck a mouth like this.

There’s an unfamiliar caution to the rut of your hips, a wincing fascination every time she gags - and she gags loud, choking and heaving, saliva dripping slick around you and down her chin - that seems to both entertain and confuse Karina. A skeptical crease in her forehead, saying everything she can’t: you don’t wanna fuck me up? Ruin me? Cloudy spit falling in strands to her tits, seeping into the crimson fabric of her dress; she’s wearing a worn black sweatshirt that’s slipping off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her collarbone. The hollow of her cheeks, the obscene painful sound of your cock clogging her throat - it’s subtext, explicit suggestion. A preternatural understanding. I know what this is. I know what you want from me.

Which - she couldn’t possibly.

“Baby.” You sound so wretched that it’s humiliating. Karina’s sharply lined eyes seem to flash with humor, smug and lazily self-satisfied. “You’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

The thick, sloppy, choked noise she makes is the closest she’s gonna get to a laugh.

Oh, sure, whatever, it’s not like you’re not thinking about it: digging your fingertips into her scalp and really fucking her face, relishing in the way those eyes would go wide and glassy with unshed tears; refusing to let her have control, to let her lick and lap and breathe. You’re scripting it in your head already. You’d strip her bare and make her sob. You’d wreck her throat and cum all over her face and force her to walk out like that: coated in the sticky, filthy evidence of everything you’ve made her - look at this, you’d say, look at what I have. Look at what I did - all this, all me.

“God.” Your thumb braces against Karina’s temple, like the gentle stroke of a brush, like you’re painting her right into existence. “You’re just-” A harsh gag; a fall of dirty, drooling spit. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Getting on your knees in public for a fucking stranger?”

That’s why the fantasy of fucking her into brutal submission is actually so understandable. You don’t know her. You don’t owe her shit. You could destroy her and it’s not like she could do anything to fight back - not when she’s already below you, looking up. When she asked for this.

Except-

“Karina.” You can’t stop saying her name. “You’re - fucking perfect.”

And it’s true.

So you cum.

Karina swallows it all with the same amount of sultry grace she seems to do everything - how she laughs and walks and talks and takes your cock like a fucking professional - languishing in the practiced bob of her throat, the preening flicker of her eyelids, her face shiny and pale. It tugs the same feeling out of you as a flawless shot in a film, a well-timed bit of dialogue: watching an expert at work, pulling out all their stops. One hand through her hair. Her nails the same rich color as her mouth and her dress. Nasty, slutty, impressive attention to detail - Christ, get this girl in front of a camera, get the moon to be her limelight - you’re breathless, you’re enthralled, you’re so fucking far gone.

Then: the sticky retreating glide of her pouty mouth, lipstick smeared badly down her chin, stark and arresting as blood.

“In my experience,” Karina says, finally, “being perfect’s never gotten me anywhere good.”

She pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt up and wipes her face with her wrist.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say, dizzy.

“Thank you,” Karina says, sweet like she means it, and sits back on her heels.

You can’t help yourself; you’re petting back her hair again, cupping her face softly in your hand, caught on the dark glint of her irises. Angel was an understatement. She looks more than that - looks like something holy and all-powerful, something omniscient and blindingly beautiful, something who knows exactly what you need and knows exactly how to follow through. Something worthy of mythology. Something like a god.

And any sort of rough, ruthless, fucked-up fantasy - it’s never going to happen.

You just can’t ruin a girl like her.

“So?” Karina’s voice is a smoky bombshell lilt, like she’s just stepped out of some film noir from the 1950s. Hands folded primly in her lap, fingers interlocked like a lady. She could be a pop culture icon, an eternal sex symbol - a Marilyn, a Bond girl, a timeless universal beauty. “What now?”

You think your brain actually short-circuits. “Sorry?”

Head tilted, lids dropped low. Smirk still sharp and scarlet. “Are you gonna take me home?”

You open your mouth to respond, but then a customer walks by the aisle.

You’re a panicked flurry of motion - zipping up your pants, turning away, frantically patting down your clothes - but Karina just stays kneeling on the floor, little chin on an incline, utterly incriminating. It doesn’t matter. The customer passes you by. The world returns to the way it should be: just the two of you.

“Karina,” you say, flabbergasted by her composure.

Karina’s lips quirk. “What?”

You shake your head and offer your hand to help her up, but Karina laughs instead - actually laughs. It’s peculiar, beautiful: raspy like a chronic chainsmoker, as though there’s something foreign she’s trying to dislodge. The raw, gravelly aftermath of a skinned knee, a grisly scrape over skin.

“Wow,” she says, and stands all on her own, tugs the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her fingers. “That’s a yes to taking me home, then?”

“What are you doing?” You’re laughing too - you can’t help it - reaching for Karina’s tiny waist to pull her in. “What are you - what do you want?”

When Karina smiles, it seems to set her eyes aflame. Bright and dancing, lashes like a shroud of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“You just met me.” It sounds feeble, somehow: a thin, useless excuse. Nothing against the way her body slots between your hands, a smooth effortless fit; nothing compared to how she kisses you between sentences, so quick and easy it already feels like a habit. “You don’t - you don’t know me.”

Karina’s mouth puckers, coy. “No?”

“No,” you shoot back, grinning, but it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “Come on, baby, seriously. What do you want?”

There’s gotta be some motive, you’re thinking. There’s gotta be a reason. Karina is so still, so soft and pliant under your hands, all the carved porcelain perfection of a marble sculpture but with none of the cold stiffness. Spine curving under your fingertips, jaw tilting into your touch.

A complete stranger, maybe - but every part of her body is begging to be known.

“Don’t you get it?” Karina says. “I want whatever you want.”

It’s so simple and earnest it takes your breath away.

“I - Jesus.” You’re biting on the inside of your cheek, drinking her in. “What if I told you I don’t know what I want?”

Another rasp of a laugh, sound like the serrated edge of a blade. “I’d say fine, okay.” Karina’s voice is low, conspiratorial. “But I’d think you’re lying.”

And here’s the thing you know for sure:

The very second you saw Karina you swear you saw the next hundred pages of a manuscript unfurling in front of you, lines and themes and gorgeous dark-eyed heroines, tragically beautiful endings and stunning cinematography - infinite narratives in the glossy sweep of her hair, in the seductive stretch of her legs, in the way she looked at you in a crowded room and smiled a lovely, secret smile and told you she’d follow you anywhere. She’s worth making art about. She’s worth devoting lifetimes to. The most honest thing you could say to her right now is baby, I’m writing a movie about this one day, and I think you’re really gonna like it.

Karina couldn’t possibly know any of this, but it still feels like she does - impractical knowledge in how she loops one arm around your neck and kisses you again, no hesitation. Like she actually knows you.

“I want to fuck you,” you murmur against her mouth, because it’s the next most honest thing. “Is that enough for you?”

You’re a screenwriter. You know your horror movies. A small part of you recognizes that this is precisely how they start: fanged vampires, wicked succubi, femme fatales out for blood. Karina’s so gorgeous she can’t be human - teeth so sharp there’s no way her intentions are pure.

“Sure,” Karina says, smirk glimmering like starlight. “Then I want that, too.”

It’s a murder plot waiting to happen.

You take her home anyway.

(Oh, and about your Oscar-winning script-

In theory, this is how it begins.

It’s classic. There’s a stranger and there’s a beautiful girl and they’re both sitting at a bar, talking for the very first time. The girl has a rose tucked behind her ear; it matches the crimson color of her lipstick perfectly. The stranger had asked her what the deal with it was, but she’d said something vague and nonsensical about it being a gift, so now they’re talking about normal, average things. Jobs, names, flirtatious pickup lines. It’s obvious because it’s meant to be, like a set-up to some predictable porn - everyone watching knows they’re going to fuck.

She keeps getting closer to him. At one point he thinks she’s going in for a kiss.

Instead, all she does is pluck the rose from behind her ear, and hand it to him.

It’s okay, she says. No thorns.

He stares at the rich furled petals and the whittled-down stem.

Thanks, he says, amused, charmed. He thinks there’s something odd about her. He likes it, though; if she were as beautiful as she is - which is very beautiful, exquisitely fucking beautiful - and she behaved like most people do, he’d find her terribly boring.

He takes it from her. Turns over the rose in his hands absentmindedly as she keeps talking. She’s got all this hair: wild and glossy black, pouring over her thin shoulders, her ribs, her tiny waist. After a moment he feels the sharp prick of a thorn against his fingertip and releases the rose in surprise.

You said there weren’t thorns, he tells her, laughing. Ow.

Whoops, she says. Then: Did it get me too?

She turns her head, pulls her hair out of the way. There’s a scarlet bead of blood trickling down the side of her perfect pale neck. He can’t quite tell where the point of entry was, where the thorn had dug in and broken skin. It’s bleeding a bit too heavily. Covering its tracks.

She swivels, slightly. She sees the look on his face. Is it bad? she asks.

No, he says, though he can’t really tell. But - couldn’t you feel it, though? The thorn?

The girl presses her hand to the side of her throat. It comes back bloodstained, a neat smear of red along the lifeline of her palm.

No, she echoes, though this can’t possibly be true. Hey, you wanna get out of here or something?

Alright, he says, smiling. They both stand. They leave the rose where it is. Let’s go.

He cups her cheek instead of her neck when he kisses her for the first time, so he doesn’t have her blood on his hands.

It starts simple like that.)

Karina’s so out of place in your apartment that it’s almost laughable - or it would be, if you were capable of thinking about anything but her mouth and her hands and her tits crushed up against your chest as you pin her to the doorframe. She keeps making these little sounds into your mouth: low and throaty, almost agonized. You swallow all her moans off her lips - oh, baby, you’re okay - and you only kiss her harder. She doesn’t belong, among your carpet worn-down from pacing and your laptop still open and idling and the mess of incoherent colorful post-it notes pasted to your fridge. She doesn’t fit here. Here kissing your mouth, here in your arms, here on fucking earth with the rest of you heathens-

“You wanna fuck me so bad,” murmurs Karina, chin on an incline, staring up at you, “then do it already.”

She doesn’t squirm or fidget; she doesn’t get needy or start begging. She stays pinned down by your body, lips parted, and stands completely still.

It’s like she’s telling you to make your move. Waiting for something inevitable.

“What happened to patience?” you say, anyway.

Karina’s mouth curls. She palms your cock through your pants. “What the fuck is that?”

You try to laugh, breathless and turned on, but all she does is kiss you again.

You’re a creative - you’re ready to attribute meaning to every movement - but there’s nothing so profound about it when you get Karina on your bed, all that thick black hair fanned out on your sheets, her hands grasping to get your shirt off - off, she murmurs, off. Even that comes out measured. She never shakes. She’s so sure. You kiss her everywhere you can reach, her face and her neck and her collarbone and her tits, drunk on the soft, humming sounds she makes when you do. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you can’t stop saying, and Karina keeps laughing that same raspy laugh, like it’s the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard.

“You told me you already know that, right?” You’ve got her face cupped in one of your hands and your other one at the neckline of her scarlet dress. “So what’s so funny?”

“Everything.” Her teeth glint the way fangs would, a deliberate trick of the light. She’d be villainous if she weren’t so content to be trapped underneath you. “All of it.” She presses her palm to the side of your neck. “You’re too nice.”

“Fuck.” Your thumb accidentally digs too hard into her cheek. She doesn’t wince, but you feel it - the stomach-turning thrill, the possibility of leaving a bruise. Your hand drops low - lower, down her throat and her tits and her flat midriff - and slips between her thighs, up her dress. It feels safer, somehow. “How do you manage to make the word nice sound like an insult?”

“It’s not,” she says, simply, and spreads her legs.

And it must not be - because Karina’s so wet.

She makes another low velvety sound when you first touch her, seems to melt into the stretch of your finger in her cunt - just one finger, and her back arches faintly, prettily, hips lifting to take more. “Jesus,” you mutter, but Karina’s not looking at you: her eyes are shut tight, lashes fluttering black, tits heaving in her dress with each draw of breath. You’ve fucked girls who’ve seemed unsure of themselves - embarrassed by their own wantonness, how wet they are, how bad they want it - but all Karina does is wrap her hand around your wrist and tug, once: a clear soundless plea for more.

For a second you’re actually, positively certain that you’ve lost it.

It’s abject fantasy. It can’t be real. You in your apartment with the dream girl - the personal Aphrodite - the muse; God, if anyone was ever made to be a fucking muse, it’s her - underneath you with her ridiculous tits and her tight little pussy, face like a Hollywood dream. Ludicrous. Impossible. Bucking as she tries to fuck herself deeper on your fingers, all the way to the knuckle - slowing down only to say you wanna fuck my cunt open with your big fat cock or what?

“I,” you try to say, strangled - her mouth’s so fucking filthy. “I was - I mean - we could take it slow-”

“How romantic,” says Karina - and this, too, sounds like a heinous insult coming from her - but she drags your wrist to her lips and sucks her own slick off your hand anyway.

You choke on your next breath. “Karina-”

She looks up at you, unflinching, tits half out of her dress and cunt dripping down her thighs. Lipstick worn-down, kissed-off. All over your mouth, or your throat, or your shirt. Mouth chapped from the cold and stained marvelously pink. There’s something in the way her smile forms slight and crooked every time you say her name, as if there’s some private joke you’re not in on.

“You’re such a gentleman,” Karina purrs, all syrupy-sweet condescension. Then: “You really don’t have to be.”

She licks the pad of your finger. She’s so completely shameless. You feel monstrous on top of her, in this sick, superior way, like she’s just too small to be so sopping wet and slutty and fuckable - too beautiful to be anything but treated just right.

“If you want me to fuck you like a whore, baby,” you tell her, half-joking, “then just say that.”

It’s a mistake the moment it leaves your mouth - a line crossed. Because all Karina does is cock her head, your wrist gripped delicately in her hand, her legs parted underneath you, and stares. Almost droll, bemused. Like you’re so goddamn predictable.

“Didn’t you hear me?” That perfect face sears right through you. You’d nearly fucked that face. Not quite. Not yet. “I want whatever you want.”

She’s even tinier than you originally thought she was. You only realize this now, tracing her stomach under your fingertips, feeling the sharp relief of each rib straining beneath her skin. You don’t know it until you touch her, but you can span the width of her thigh under one hand. It sends a strange shiver through you: mapping every jut of bone, every startling edge. She’s tiny. Breakable, practically. Men meaner than you have probably thrown her around, fucked her up against walls, used her like a toy.

“So,” says Karina. “What do you want?”

Your fist clenches tight in her grasp, right in front of her face, knuckles going horrifically white.

Like you - like you’re going to-

An accident. A primal sort of gesture, like you’re less than human, turned under her touch into some feral hot-blooded animal who can’t control itself: carnivorous, predatory. You stare at your own hand and then the sharp scythelike curve of her mouth and feel revolted embarrassment crawl straight up your spine.

It’s abhorrent.

It also doesn’t even seem to matter.

Karina doesn’t go wide-eyed and nervous; she doesn’t look at your wound fist like she’s scared of what it could do to her. She clicks her tongue, once. Like this, too, is something she already saw coming.

“I thought so,” she says, anyway. Maybe this is it, what does it for her; looking the devil full in the face and begging to be burned. “Then do it.”

“I can’t do that to you,” you mutter, but you tug her dress up, and you fuck her anyway.

She’s a stranger. This is the point of fucking strangers. To do things to them that you’d never do to anyone else - to take out your worst impulses and tell your best lies and know that none of it matters, in the end. Because they’re nobody, and because you’ll never see them again.

But you just can’t.

She’s too indulgent and stunning and soft, with her low moans and the addicting drenched heat of her cunt, hand gentle and careful on the nape of your neck so she can keep pulling you into a kiss. She’s made up of curves, delicate edges - those hips and those tits you can’t keep your hands off of and her lips in a dreamy smile - and you find yourself stroking her hair back from her face so you can drink it all in: the blush in her cheeks, the almost serene way she lets her eyes slip shut and her mouth drop open, slack and enticingly wet. So good, baby, you keep telling her, because she is, her entire body warm and wanting and so easily fucked open, little pussy swallowing your cock right up. She doesn’t fidget or plead. She’s so sweet, such a perfect fit, humming into your mouth as your cock eases her open; so wet you can hear it, the sloppy squelch of her cunt when you bottom out. Your voice comes out coaxing. You like that? That feel good? Taking my cock so nicely, huh?

“Mmm,” Karina breathes, in an exhilarating moan, right into your mouth, against your tongue. “Mm, mm-”

She never quite manages full sentences. Never finds it in herself to make any more obscene demands. Just gets all small and soaking underneath you, licks messily at your bottom lip, and lets you do all the talking - lets you draw a careful hand through her hair and drop your other one between her thighs, clenches tight around your cock when you rub at her clit, keens low in her throat and listens. To the good girl, to the I got you, baby, to the that’s it, there you go, this is what you wanted - I know, honey, I know, you just needed to get this cunt fucked right, you just needed to cum real bad. I know what this is. I know what you need.

“Fuck.” She’s flushed pink to her chest, delightfully ineloquent. “Yes-”

Well - good thing you’re decent with your words, when it counts. Let Karina blush and drool and slick up your cock with every stroke. That’ll work just fine with you.

It’s the kind of juxtaposition you’d really lean into - the kind of thing you’d write just to get so self-indulgent with, a personalized note to the director, a wink and a nudge to every audience member. Look at that. Look at her eyes like something straight out of poetry. Look at her body like a pornographic fantasy. Look at how she gets so tamed and docile and compliant when she gets her tiny pussy stuffed full, creaming all over that cock, huge tits bouncing - look, that’s art, isn’t it? What else would you call it? What else could it be?

“You gonna cum, baby?” She’s so fragile underneath you. Color staining her cheeks apple-red; lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Fictive little fairy tale. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah.” It’s breathy and barely-there. Her chin trembles, jerks in a weak nod. “I’m - I - fuck-”

See: you just can’t rough her up. It’d be blasphemous. Sacrilege. Taking one single look at the stained-glass windows of a church and tearing it all to the ground.

Still, you’re mesmerized by how utterly vulnerable she looks: the glossy shine to her irises; the way she inhales all slow and shaky, body slipping from some sort of precipice. Not just like she’s near-tears, but like she’s stunned - struck dumb from a violent blow, mouth wide open in the aftermath. And it’s just sex - and, fuck, you’ve said it, you see things the way every obsessive artist does; sex is never just sex. Every one thing means something more. A metaphor. An allegory. You get nasty and debauched and dirty because you know exactly what you can spin it into. Put the entire scene in a silent film and everyone can swoon about the things you might be saying to her, this impossibly captivating stranger in your bed with her graceful name, her dizzying moans, her shuddering frame in her orgasm. Don’t you get it? you could be telling her, hand brushing gently over her sweat-damp hairline. Don’t you feel that? You’re a stranger to me, baby, but you don’t have to be. There’s a reason we met. There’s a meant-to-be here, somewhere. I’m not a believer, sweetheart, but you could make one out of me - I swear you could, I promise-

But that’s the reason why these things are best left to the imagination, anyway.

A million scripted sweet nothings - and none of them manage to make it out of your mouth.

“Karina.” Your hips jerk hard. You sound half-possessed. “So pretty, cumming all over my cock like that. Such a perfect little cunt, baby - so fucking good-”

Her eyes suddenly shut tight; her body arcs into your touch, lips parted in a silent gasp. And for a second it seems like such a snapshot of innocence, like she’s brand-new to getting fucked quick and rough and dirty - though you know this can’t possibly be the truth, not with the way she flirts and whines and drips for more like she’s made for it - but she’s trembling under your fingertips, and you can dream. She’s your beautiful stranger, your pristine muse; you can pretend she’s whatever the fuck you want.

“God,” Karina murmurs, so soft and weak it makes your head spin.

Before you know what you’re doing - before you can even think twice about it - you’re pulling out, and cumming all over her stomach.

You can’t help it. You shouldn’t have had that thought about innocence. Jesus. This is what you mean, about you and your own painful humanity; you’ve got all the same vile desires. When you see a pure thing - all that porcelain skin, all that thick glossy black hair, all those gleaming white teeth in her open mouth - your very first instinct is to fuck it up bad.

You’d do worse, if you were worse - you’d make a real fucking disaster out of her.

“Baby,” you say, breathlessly. “Are you…”

And Karina, then, does something truly evil:

Sighs luxuriously, stretches her arms above her head, eases those gorgeous eyes open, and smiles.

As if she’s reveling in it. The scent of sex - the defiled tautness of her tummy - the way you’re not sure where her little red dress or her shoes or her panties are, how her cunt’s dripping wet onto your sheets, her hair a glorious mess. Grinning in the face of utter filth.

“You,” you exhale, running your palm down her side. “You’re so…”

Karina’s mouth pulls up at a corner, like she’s daring you to finish the sentence, but you never do.

You can’t stop staring at the stretch of cum-covered skin before you. Coating her belly, pooling into her navel. You realize with a start that there’s a new bruise blooming on her chest, a vicious sort of bite mark. You can’t remember when you did that. You’d been kissing her - of course you kissed her - her mouth and her neck and her tits, but you’d been so gentle, sucking light and soothing her skin with your tongue after-

“You didn’t want to cum inside me?” Karina asks, hoarsely.

You blink so hard your vision blurs. “What?”

“Right.” Her eyeshadow’s smudged dark underneath her eyes, making her look deliciously used up. “You did want to cum inside me.”

“Karina,” you warn - or, at least, you mean to make it sound like a warning - but her name comes out too faint. It’s horrific. Your hand traces her hipbone so reverently. You’re no match for her.

Karina arches a brow in unhurried challenge, ghosts her hand across her tummy. Takes two fingers and drags them through the cum you spilled, pulls back with it clinging thickly to her skin. Drifts down, down, down.

“Karina,” you try to say again, even more pathetic than last time. “Jesus-”

But you saying her name holds no weight here; she’s made that more than obvious. Nothing to stop her as she smears her cum-slick fingers across her glistening pussy, gaze locked amusedly on your face, tracking your reaction. She’s still so fucking wet - she rubs your cum in circles across her clit - tossing her head back a little, chest heaving and falling, fingertips just barely dipping inside her cunt-

“I can’t.” Karina lifts her hand to pop her fingers in her mouth, sucks them clean. Pointedly flashes her too-sharp nails at you like she’s unsheathing claws. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

“You,” you say, though your hand’s already pressing hard into her ribs, “are fucking cruel, baby.”

“And you,” replies Karina, head tilting, “just want to see my cunt all filled up and leaking your cum.”

Oh, she hasn’t been wrong about you all night. She certainly won’t start now.

“What?” A sly, languid smirk tugs at her lips. “Afraid you’re gonna knock me up or something?”

Your breath halts right in your lungs.

You’d been right about her too, it seems. Succubus. Vampire. She must be; she’s bloodthirsty. Tits gleaming with sweat, the scarlet stain of that bite mark you can’t remember leaving, cunt all dripping wet and desperately empty - body like a fatal fucking blow.

Karina’s eyes glint. I want what you want, she’d said.

With the way she spreads her legs, she’s gotta be ready to prove it.

So you never stood a chance. You give in and scoop up cum with one finger and sink it deep inside her aching cunt, feeling as she clenches down, as she takes it so well; like a good girl, you tell her, letting me do whatever I want with this needy little cunt; that’s my good girl. Karina lifts her hips - goes so still and so obedient - and lets you repeat it over and over again, fucking into her with your fingers until the plane of her stomach is bare and sticky and her cunt’s dribbling your cum onto your sheets. It’s completely nasty. It’s hot. It’s Karina craning her neck back and shutting her eyes as you bury three fingers inside of her and fill her with your cum, every part of her in utter surrender, entirely at your mercy, breathing out hard through her nose until your thumb rubs at her clit and she’s cumming again, all over your hand. She gets this look on her face, afterwards - exhausted, every line of her face gentle and lax - staring up at you like you’re the only person still left on this planet. Adoring, almost. As if you’re something out of another world.

It’s an expression too sweet for a scene like this - and it’s exactly what men like you make art about.

“There,” you say, soft and mesmerized, wiping your hand across her chest. “Satisfied?”

Karina laughs her strange, gravelly, gorgeous laugh.

“No,” she says, shamelessly. “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers curl around the curve of her jaw. “No?”

She barely looks like she belongs in your bed - she must be something divine, lit from within, god-blessedly gorgeous. She’s a fucking fever dream: stunning eyes and the bob of her throat and her tits and her curves and all that hair. Stay, you think of telling her. Let me see what I can make of you. I don’t know you yet but I could, baby, I really could.

“Nope.” Karina smiles, and somewhere, soliloquies are writing themselves. “I always want more.”

“Okay,” you say, mouth hovering over hers. “Then stay.”

So she stays.

(An update on your script:

The stranger and the girl are back at his place. They’re sitting on his couch. Nobody has cleaned off her neck. He’s been too busy pawing at her: at her face, between her legs, at her tits in her tight dress. I need you, he’s been murmuring to her, and it feels like he really means it: like he’ll die if he doesn’t get her desperate and whining underneath him, his cock stretching her tight little cunt wide open. He doesn’t feel too bad about it. She’s a dirty slut. She’s said as much. She’s got her own needs, too.

What happened to your window? she asks, suddenly.

He pulls back from her chest, his spit clinging shiny to her skin.

She isn’t looking at him. He has the sudden, unnerving feeling that she hasn’t been looking at him the whole time. Not like she’s had her eyes closed in blinding, overwhelming pleasure - but like she’s deliberately been trying to look at anything else.

But his hand falls between her thighs, and he realizes she’s already wet.

A bird flew into it, probably, he says. That happens, sometimes.

They’re talking about the stain on the once-clean glass of his window. The backdrop of the night sky behind means it’s barely visible, but the suggestion of it is enough. Implicit gore. Tiny little black feathers, caked in blood from the impact, dark and dried. It’ll be scrubbed off soon enough, he knows. It’ll be all gone eventually.

Oh, she says. She doesn’t apologize for potentially killing the mood. She hasn’t, anyway, not really. She’s still wet and small underneath him, begging for it. Poor thing.

Yeah, he says.

She turns back to him. Her hair’s everywhere, all over the arm of his couch, wayward strands beneath his fingers. She’s clearly expecting something - to be kissed, to be fucked hard, to be called baby and angel and good girl. It doesn’t really matter either way. Those are the only things he can give her.

He stares at the blood on her neck.

Let me clean that off for you, actually, he says, and goes to the kitchen to get a washcloth.)

Much, much later:

“I admire you,” Karina says, all tucked up in your bed, underneath your sheets, half-buried into your side. Moonlight bleeds into the room. Her eyes gleam like galaxies. “For showing some self-control.”

“What?”

Karina’s hair pours over your pillowcase. She takes your hand and brings it close to her face, working your fingers into a tight fist.

“Fucking bitch,” you mutter, and then regret it immediately. It lands too harshly, too strange and serious. “Sorry. I didn’t - that came out weird. I don’t think you’re a bitch.”

Karina’s lips brush your knuckles. “Not the meanest thing I’ve been called.” Her voice twists with humor. She shouldn’t be so comfortable curled up with a man she doesn’t know in the middle of the night. You think of kissing her hard, of scraping her neck with your teeth, of warning her about self-preservation - sweetheart, you could tell her, this is how people end up dead. “Not the meanest thing I’ll be called, either.”

You shift. Your fist, unconsciously, goes tense in her hand. “What’s your deal?”

Her mouth tilts. “What’s yours?”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re unbearable,” you say softly, which feels much kinder than calling her a bitch. “What are you - what do you mean?”

I’m not hard to figure out, you want to tell her. I’ll let you in if you ask me to. But you - you, you imagine saying, cupping Karina’s face in your hands and saying her name like you’re praying to her, drafting scenes in your head with each whispered syllable - you. Look at you. I’d fill a thousand pages trying to find a way to understand you.

“If you want to hurt me,” Karina says, “then hurt me.”

Your throat dries up. Your fist falls open. “What?”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. You see her tongue dart over her bottom lip, the slick glimmer of spit. “If that’s what you wanted.”

You stare at her, hard.

It’s not difficult to make out her silhouette in the dark; she’s illuminated so distinctly by the moon, like it’s her own on-set spotlight, professionally arranged - she’s got the cosmos calling her shots. You think about how careful you’d been with her: doing what she wanted and making her cum and kissing her like you have history and maybe fucking her like you love her, just a little.

You think about that bruise you left on her chest, her skin between your teeth, the feeling of biting down.

“It’s not,” you say, and the lie tastes acrid in your mouth. “It’s - it’s not, Karina.”

“You fucked my face in public within like an hour of meeting me. And fucked me and came on my stomach. And fingered your cum inside of me.” It’s far past midnight. She sounds more alert than she should. “You’re gonna start being polite now?”

It sends an odd knot to your gut, the way she puts it. Equating all of that to hurting her. Laughing in the face of your clenched fist - not because she thinks you won’t do it, but because she knows how bad you want it.

Hurt me. She says it like it’s so easy. Fuck me. Let me stay the night. Hurt me; you’ve earned it.

“I’m not polite.” The truth doesn’t taste much better. “I just have, you know, common fucking decency.”

“Hm,” Karina says, a nonchalant little noise, and nothing else.

You brush her hair off her neck and your fingertips graze the hollow of her throat. You feel her swallow under your touch. You open your mouth, though you’re not sure what you’re about to say - Karina, like a chant, like she’s consumed you in a matter of moments, Karina - but she shuts her eyes delicately, and curls close to you, and just like that the moment is over.

I have common decency, you’d said. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I can control myself.

So maybe you weren’t right about everything. You’re not the devil. That’d be a delusion of grandeur - the idea that you’d ever have that kind of power over a girl like her.

Not for long, she’d replied, in the knowing tilt of her smile. Not if I can help it.

In the morning, it’s a picture of crime-scene proportions. It takes a little work to piece it all together.

Karina’s not in bed when you wake up, but there are traces of her everywhere - telltale, incriminating bits of evidence. Strands of her hair on the pillow. Blood-red lipstick stains on the fabric. Her crimson dress crumpled on your bedroom floor, sporting a tiny tear in the hem that you don’t remember leaving; you can still smell her perfume all over your sheets, like a calling card. If this was a TV drama - a clichéd police procedural - she’d probably be dead in your living room right now, blank-eyed and beyond saving, rigor mortis deforming her perfect body into something grotesque.

This is also probably not a thought you should ever relay to Karina, but you do anyway.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies. She’s perched on your kitchen counter, dressed in one of your t-shirts, bare legs swinging. “I’m very much alive.”

“I was being dramatic,” you try to say, gesturing with your hands to set the scene - the lighting, the fake blood and the special effects, the potential pallor of her face. “I’m - I’m a screenwriter. It’s in my nature. I didn’t mean I wanted to find your fucking corpse out here-”

“It’s okay if you did.”

You choke. “What?”

“I’m right with you, babe.” Karina leans forward conspiratorially. There’s a sharpness to the dark glint in her eyes that kind of makes you think she really does understand: that she has the same tendency to jump to the worst possible conclusions. A kindred, morbid spirit. “I get it. I’m pretty devastated that I’m still breathing, too.”

She says this all in a scratchy, sultry voice, hoarse as though she’s been sleeping for years instead of hours. Lashes fluttering like she’s just told you something very adorable and sweet.

“God,” you say, desperately charmed, and laugh until you feel light-headed. “You’re sick.”

Karina’s mouth curls. “Right.”

“I’m serious.” It’s surreal: her wearing your clothes and sitting on your counter like this is an everyday occurrence, indulging every fucked-up thing you say to her. Maybe you’re still caught somewhere in a dream, just waiting to wake up. “You’re, like - not normal.”

“Hey.” A light, careless shrug; her palm rests over the back of her neck. “No arguments here.”

You rub a hand over your eyes, smiling like an idiot, and take a breath.

It’s late January, and cool sunlight drips into the room, over your furniture and your floors and the angel right in the middle of your kitchen. It should wash her out, blur her at the edges; it doesn’t even come close. Turns her to a freeze frame instead, carefully color-graded, every hue just a bit too intense: skin ghost-pale, lips pouty and pink, hair jet-black and tangled to her waist. Your shirt hangs off of her slender frame like it aims to swallow her up. You thought you’d been stunned by Karina before, lulled by the late night, the electric rush of touching her - you’d assumed you could blame it on the alcohol, the slutty dress and the sultry makeup and the long-held habit of artistic romanticization-

But it’s nothing compared to seeing her now.

Karina crosses one leg over the other, and waits as though expecting a rating: to be starred out of five like a film.

Face scrubbed clean. Bone structure a study of faultless symmetry, delicate in a way that feels both inhuman and invulnerable. She’s so classically breathtaking - a miraculous second coming of a tragic, iconic movie star, a phenomenon back from the grave; jaw and nose and mouth all clean lines, aesthetically precise art - but God, those eyes. Enormous without the thick liner, suggestive only of impossible innocence. Like some darling baby animal, some long-lashed lamb to the slaughter - something pristine and completely untouched.

The morning after, the direct light, the exposed behind-the-scenes - she’s still beyond beautiful.

And somehow she’s still here with you.

“That’s insane, by the way,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “That you stayed.”

There’s a loud cracking sound.

You squint, disoriented. “What-”

Karina blinks at you, wide-eyed; her jaw shifts. The sound echoes again, startling and sudden. “What?”

“Are-” You step closer. “Are you chewing on fucking glass or something?”

“Or something,” Karina replies, smile’s tiny and closed-off. She gestures to the cup next to her. “It’s just ice.”

She’s so calm watching you approach her. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the freakout, for the breakdown - or, at the very least, the scrambling excuses before the walk of shame. Here’s the truth: she doesn’t know you. Here’s an even worse truth: judging by her hickey that looks like you might’ve tried to rip her throat out earlier, she’d have every right to take one look at you and run.

Karina doesn’t do any of it. Just raises her cup to her lips and tips it back, the arc of her neck so inviting.

“That’s so fucking bad for your enamel.” You’re laughing again. You’re in front of her now, settled between her legs. “You’re gonna break a tooth.”

Karina sets her glass down. Wipes the corner of her mouth with her wrist, eyes locked amusedly on yours - heavy-lidded enough to seem lazy, but pupils blown enough to be a siren call, a deliberate suggestion.

“Oh, no,” she says, all smoky sarcasm. “Who’d ever want me then?”

She parts her thighs the second you touch them; her body’s so obedient under your fingertips, like a doll’s, something to be dressed up and posed and played with. Daring you to do everything you’re already thinking about doing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, and give in completely.

So:

Look, you know exactly how the movies would frame this. Pandering to the wide-eyed teenagers and hopeless romantics; adding the swell of strings every time your eyes or hands or lips meet, each motion accompanied with unsubtle cues - there’s the meet-cute, there’s the moment, there’s the love-at-first-sight. It’s ridiculous to drag any of that into your real life, of course. It’d be like believing in God. Giving up logic to put your faith in something silly and mythic and implausible - to follow true love like a religion, expecting it to save your soul; to pray to the one like a healing property, a benevolent higher power.

You can’t believe in that. You can’t.

But-

Karina pulls back the barest amount, eyelids fluttering open like a new day dawning, and smiles when she sees the look on your face. So sweet and gorgeous; so struck and adoring. So comfortable wrapped up in your arms.

“Hi,” she murmurs.

And - as though it’s some bone-deep instinct, saturating your bloodstream - you just have to kiss her again.

Don’t you feel that? you think of telling her again, your hand slipping to cup her cheek - the sentiment always seems to come back around. You swear you can see scenes flashing behind your eyelids, the beginnings of a creative epiphany; it must be seeping through your fingers, staining her skin with ink, every possible action depicted neatly between brackets. A laugh, a look, a touch. A version of Karina projected across the silver screen to a wild, wanting audience. Don’t you see what you could do for me? What you’re capable of becoming?

You can’t believe in any of this, but it’s gotta be something close.

The feeling doesn’t end when the kiss does: only intensifies, made tangible somehow. Sculpted into the spit-slick curve of her lips, the flinty gleam in her eye. Like she feels it too. Like she knows.

“And it’s not insane that I stayed,” Karina says, belatedly. “You asked me to.”

For a moment you just stare at her, seconds from her mouth and speechless.

It’s the truth without difficulty. It’s a confession with no strings attached. It’s the fucking dangerous way she says it - as if whatever you want extends to a lot more than sex.

“And you don’t-” Your throat closes over a swallow; you find your eyes darting between hers, searching for anything but honesty. “You don’t think that’s insane? Doing whatever a stranger tells you to?”

Karina only laughs her strange laugh, gritty the way good music is, demanding to be heard.

“Nope,” she says, like this is all so simple. “That’s just what I do.”

It’s unbearably filthy in its implication - and it’s exactly what you need.

The room seems to fill with potential, fantasies pouring in from the ceiling, enough to bloat any manuscript to its breaking point. You let out a breathless laugh, loud and unabashed. You think of pushing for even more, pressing your nails in and digging deeper - why me, why this, why now - but Karina leans in close before you can and slots her mouth to yours, and you’re no fool: there’s no line of questioning worth giving that up.

Seems like you’ll have to come up with this character motivation all on your own.

“Look at us,” she murmurs against your lips - meaning this very minute, the chemistry, how every glittering star must’ve conspired to get you here. “Kinda feels like this was meant to be, huh?”

She’s clearly kidding, because it’s too soon and too fucking crazy, but-

Well, the way you kiss her then is absolutely your version of a yes.

Here’s something people should probably know about artists like you:

You’re rather enamored with the idea of a magnum opus.

It’s a natural thing to reach for, to visualize - the concept of your one great masterpiece. Something you can pour years and years into, water into roaring reckless oceans; time transforming the things you make into something worth remembering forever. Everyone you know - your sculptors, your songwriters - has their own version of this, somewhere. When I finally create this one perfect thing I’ll be - go on, fill in the blank. Fulfilled. Gratified. Happy. When I finally do this, I’ll feel whole.

It’s strangely fantastical. A lifelong dream a kid would have - a childlike, storybook aspiration.

Yours - as far as you’ve figured out - looks a little like this:

“It’s not as romantic as it should be,” you admit, now. “I’m not really into that as a theme. True love, I mean. Or optimism. Or hope. I want something more…” Something rougher, you mean. Something with pain. Something with blood and bruises. “Nuanced, you know? Complicated, messy.”

“I get it,” replies Karina. She has her hands twisted in her lap, watching you very closely. You’re obsessed with the way she looks at you - like she’s drinking every word in with those smoldering dark eyes, greedy for more. For you. “All the best art is about pain, huh?”

You snap your fingers, pleased to be understood. “Exactly.”

Karina smiles, small and knowing, and gestures you on.

In your vision, your magnum opus is always about a girl. Like you said, it’s the way it goes with all the best films ever made: not about love, but the futility of it lasting. Think of all the famed examples - think of the filmmakers and their obsessions, sneaking the great loves of their lives between each line: there’s something she said, there’s a dress she wore, there’s a conversation they had in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets and whispering against skin. Your future muse will be just like that. A reincarnation of the infamous women who haunt all the greatest artists - an amalgamation of their bodies contorted into narratives and replicated in loving, graphic detail. Someone with skin like marble, a statue you could take a sledgehammer to. Someone who looks unfathomably pretty when she cries.

Someone like-

“Uh-huh,” says Karina. She must’ve just gotten out of the shower before you found her, because her hair’s damp enough to have left wet patches on your t-shirt. She licks her bottom lip, once. “Sure.”

Someone to be what you’ve always wanted: a flawless girl to fall from the sky into your lap. To fulfill your promise to yourself: when I meet her, I’ll know. I’ll be able to make this movie. When I meet her, everything will slip exactly into place.

Karina cracks another ice cube between her teeth.

“So,” she says, low with insinuation. “When you told me last night that you found me inspiring…”

She doesn’t need to finish the question. She knows exactly what you want.

“You’re…” You shake your head. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I saw you and I just - I felt like I knew. I knew. I wanted you.” You shrug helplessly, smiling. “Do you think I’m nuts?”

She should, probably. You’re a total stranger, a practical lunatic, an artist talking of your visions like you’re possessed. You don’t know her - that’s the reality of the situation. You don’t know her.

But then there’s everything else.

The unbelievable sex, the staying the night; the way she lets you touch her, blinking slow and subservient, like you already have a claim to her body. You think muse and you think in abstract concepts, glittering stars, guiding lights; you think of skin cut up and sewn together, of creators and their finest monsters, of the implicit poetry in the undoing. You think muse and you think of the way Karina smiles at you now, full lips and frail bones, a painter’s portrait reference. Unmoving, unafraid. Too otherworldly for your day-to-day but just right when she’s in your arms, like a trial-run demonstration: this is what we’re capable of. You could make it happen. You could make me fit.

You swear you’ve been dreaming of someone like her your whole fucking life.

You think muse, and now you can only think of her.

It’s a sign. It must be. And this, the next one:

“No,” Karina says, easily. “I think you’re just like everyone else.” But she raises an eyebrow, so you know it’s a joke. “I think you’re all the same.”

You laugh, delighted; Karina’s smile widens, shows her teeth. “Shut up.”

Karina acquiesces immediately - claps a hand over her mouth like it’ll keep any other words from escaping. It’s so adorable that you can’t keep yourself from pouncing, suddenly all over her like an animal: wrenching her thin wrist down, fingers threading through her hair, tugging her lips to yours as if you’ve been starved and she’s something to devour. She’s so cold, ice still melting on her tongue; even her body feels glacial, more porcelain than real. It drives you wild - the stunning impossibility of her. The desire to see it all reworked, unwound, shattered.

“So,” you breathe over her mouth. “I can write about you?”

“Babe.” Karina’s dark eyes sparkle, frozen-over streets in the mid-winter sun. “You can do anything you want with me.”

That’s the whole point of having a muse, after all. Everything they are becomes yours.

“But,” you can’t help saying right after: “you don’t have to be, like - concerned. About what I said. About art and pain. I mean…” You falter. You’re standing in between her spread legs now, thumbing the sharp curve of her jaw. “It’s fiction. I’m not that kind of guy in real life - I’m not going to hurt you.”

Karina just stares at you, sentiment clear and unspoken.

“Not like - not seriously.” You roll your eyes, laughing it off. “Not like that.”

“Not like that,” Karina echoes. The hickey on her neck seems to flush redder every time you look at it - a photograph in a darkroom, developing. “But in other ways.”

Your mouth opens, but whatever defense you might’ve had gets traitorously stuck in your throat.

Karina laughs hoarsely, lets you trace her bottom lip with a finger. She seems to get the picture - that you’d love to see it bitten and bloody, but only ever in the name of art. There’s a kind of sick, sadistic beauty in destruction, battles waged and lost. She leans into your touch like she’s seen all the war films and knows precisely why they’re so well-loved.

“For the record,” she tells you, arms looped loosely around your neck: “I look very pretty when I cry.”

“Jesus Christ.” You’re smiling. She couldn’t be more perfect if you’d dreamt her up yourself. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it happen.”

It’s like fate, probably.

(Up next in your script:

The girl is standing in the stranger’s bathroom. She’s turning a little glass perfume bottle over in her hands when he stops in the doorway. He’s perfectly content to watch her; she’s the kind of beautiful that deserves to be observed, like some exotic wild animal caged between four walls in an elaborate exhibit, mildly unaware of all the attention. Her hair is messy; her head is tilted down. Unseeing.

Oh, he says. That was my-

Except he doesn’t even get the rest of the sentence out before the girl whirls around, and the bottle slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.

Jesus. The stranger jolts back. Jumpy. He’s not too concerned about the broken bottle; it’s not his, anyway. Why the fuck did you do that?

Sorry, the girl says. She’s leaning rather casually against the counter, observing the glass covering the ground, the sickly-sweet smell of the perfume sticking to the tile. Honeysuckle and the sharp note of alcohol, rendered unrecognizable. You scared me.

He looks down. A crystalline stretch of tiny little shards - if she tried to move she’d slice her foot open.

No worries, he says. Hold on.

He ducks into the kitchen to get a broom and when he comes back he stops in his tracks. There’s something slightly off about the picture in front of him. She’s small against the background counter, frozen, barely blinking. Everything about her looks suddenly frail, fair skin ghostly underneath shitty bathroom lighting, cheekbones gaunt and sunken-in, hair pouring ink-black in endless waves. A vengeful spirit. An incorporeal haunting.

Did you…? he starts to say, thrown.

She blinks, finally. Did I what?

He pauses, reassesses. She’s gorgeous. She’s art. She’s vibrantly alive.

Never mind, he says.

It seems kind of like she’d moved, but he can’t tell. He forgets about it. She’s still beautiful and she seems okay and so he steps forward and clears the worst of the glass out of the way.

It’s silly, she says, watching him. I used to know someone who wore that perfume.

It was my ex-girlfriend’s, he says. She left it here a while back. I think it’s a common brand or whatever. Hey, let me help you.

He’s very chivalrous about it, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her bridal-style across the possible remnants of glass. She laughs all the while, playing into it - a princess out of a fairy tale, being carried to safety by some gallant knight. But then he sets her down and cups her ass and says, You gonna pay me back for the property damage or what? and she laughs harder, because there’s nothing funnier than that: sweet moments turned filthy, a startling hairpin turn in intention.

Or - conversely - a revelation of the absolute truth. Because what else could he ever want from her?

So she says, Yeah, sure, take everything, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s a normal kiss, mostly. It’s just that it begins pointedly erotic but seems to turn strange after a second, like he might be gripping her hair too hard, like she might be corpse-limp in his arms, like at any moment he could unhinge his jaw and sprout fangs and swallow her whole, cannibalistic, viperous. There’s too much spit and sound. There’s too much teeth and selfishness. It stretches on too long and lingers where it shouldn’t and overstays its welcome terribly - the score seems to fall off-beat, the lighting seems to shift dark and discolored-

But then the kiss breaks, and it’s over.

When he pulls off of her she looks like the perfect picture of flushed contentment. Eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering, her pouty lips swollen and rosy. Smiling like she wants more, like she wants it so, so bad.

It didn’t get you? he asks finally, looking at her neck, thinking of thorns and pinprick pain and the rivulet of crimson that’d decorated her throat. The glass?

No, she says. Don’t you wanna fuck me now?

Oh, God, he says, grinning, and every other thought melts away into nothing. He likes how she doesn’t play coy. He likes how she’s smaller and has to tilt her chin up to look at him. He wants to fuck her, so he does.

It’s excellent sex. The blood on the tile doesn’t really matter.)

Before you really start writing, there’s just one singular problem: you don’t know anything about her.

“That’s not true,” Karina replies, right away.

You open your mouth, then close it, because - okay, she’s not completely wrong.

For about an hour now you just haven’t been able to stop talking to her. About anything, everything: your start into screenwriting, your favorite novels, your greatest inspirations, your neverending passion for eerie, erotic art. You can’t seem to shut up. And it would be bad - would be making you feel self-conscious right now, if it were anyone else - but it’s just not. Because it’s, well-

It’s you, you told her, thoughtfully, watching as the sun climbed higher into the sky, golden light grazing each scalpel-sharp edge of Karina’s body. You’re easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that?

Karina blinked at you. Tucked a strand of silky hair behind her ear and looked away, considering it.

She has this way about her: this serene openness to her big eyes, her body language. Leaning back on her hands, humming and nodding and saying I get it, I feel that way too, I understand with such sweet sincerity that you can’t help but believe her. Like a Catholic confessional, a pristinely blank page - something you could pour hours and hours of words into that would never, ever complain.

Yeah, Karina said, finally. She pulled one leg up to her chest; you could see the lacy black of her panties. I get that all the time.

Just one of those people, huh? Her character was taking shape already. A vault for everyone else’s thoughts and ideas, cradling them between her fingers like something infinitely precious. A listener. Such a lovely trait; a perfect protagonist characteristic. An observer.

Yeah. Her cheek rested gently against a knobby knee. Exactly.

It’s something of an art study. You’ve been filing away these details about Karina since the moment you met her, unraveling her bit by bit.

She always seems to think deeply before she speaks, a sort of charming self-scripting, like she wants to make sure she gets every sentence just right. She makes silence seem like the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t laugh nervously or blush or get embarrassed, ever. She’d mentioned offhand during one of your tangents about your most beloved movies that she tends to like films about gorgeous, dangerous, scarily self-possessed girls: Thirteen and Black Swan and Girl, Interrupted. She seems both intensely present and consistently lost in thought, there one moment and gone the next, her long-lashed gaze falling in and out of focus like a camera lens. A contradiction, you think to yourself. An enigma, even. Profoundly complicated. Not just a girl but something more.

Art in and of itself, displayed deliberately on your kitchen counter, waiting to be understood.

“No, you’re right.” Your fingers have strayed to your open laptop; you’re seconds from typing Karina’s name like a title, something you’ve created all on your own. “I know…”

You’re trying to think of something nonchalant to say and failing. I know you - the first instinct, somehow. I know you’re something brilliant and remarkable and new. I know I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I know there’s something here, I know what I feel, I know what I want - you, you, you.

Karina stares at the ice melting in her glass.

Then she says, mouth tripping up at a corner: “You know I’m a world-class fuck.”

“Jesus.” You laugh out loud, surprised. “Okay, yeah. That.” A pause. “And, obviously-”

“Obviously,” Karina echoes, like she knows where this is going.

“I know that you’re, like - outrageously fucking beautiful.”

Karina hums once, letting the compliment wash over her, and turns to look out the window.

You bite down on your lip - bite back all the other too-soon things you could say about her, threatening to claw their way out of your mouth - and go in on your script instead.

It’s shockingly easy to write with her in the room. The details seem to stitch themselves together on-page, the restorative aftermath of an autopsy: sealing the slit chest cavity back up, prepping a corpse for an open casket, making something disconnected whole and beautiful again. You’d pulled these specifics from her like pulsing, throbbing organs - her tits, her tone, her tiny waist - and now all you’re doing is repurposing them. You know her body now. You turn stretches of pale, bruised-pink skin into prose, the curl of her little fingers around her thigh into dialogue. You imagine taking that perfect frame and picking it apart again, bit by bit; not just undressing her but peeling back layers of flesh, familiarizing yourself with the stark scarlet of her bloodstream. Until there’s nothing to hide and you can finally say it - I know you - and it’ll feel earned, and real, and honest.

All very melodramatic, of course. It’s just the process: the natural consequence of being a writer.

Your eyes trace the jutting protrusion of muscle in Karina’s throat, and you think about fucking her again.

“Also,” you say, as though your earlier conversation isn’t long over. “I want to know-”

Karina makes a huffy, half-impatient noise.

You grin, gaze flicking back to her face. “What?”

“You want to know more?” Her brows furrow in exaggerated confusion; her smile is absurdly self-deprecating. As if there’s anything she could possibly be insecure about. “You already got the two most interesting things about me, babe.”

“Stop.” Your mouth twitches. “No way.”

Karina’s smile stills in place, expectant. “No?”

“Come on.” Your hand slips from the keyboard to trace her knee. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of interesting things about you I haven’t learned yet.”

The laugh she lets out is quiet and nearly secretive, legs parting to let you touch her. You’re already half in some faraway daydream, wondering if you can bottle the color of her eyes and turn it loose on the page.

“Okay,” Karina says, easily. She nudges your laptop away, scoots closer to you, her sharp chin pointed down at you. “Come and learn them, then.”

“God.” As if that’s what you’re doing. Memorizing her body as some private education; taking her apart in a classroom dissection. “Can I - I’m trying to write, Karina. I’m being productive. I…” You’re shaking your head as though you’re not already giving in, fingers slipping up her thighs - she’s smirking at you like she knows it. “You’re fucking insatiable, you know that?”

“Then satiate me.” Karina’s head tilts, lids heavy. “Fuck me. Use me.” She leans down like she’s telling you a filthy, sordid secret. “Cum in me like I know you want to.”

There’s something surreal about how certain she is: never tripping over her words or waffling over intentions, the most practiced actress you’ve ever seen. Every move - her tongue wetting her bottom lip, her hand sliding gracefully through her hair, her mouth forming a sweet little pout - all clean, choreographed precision.

I know you, she says - like it’s earned, real, honest. Inexplicable, but there anyway. I know you want to.

“Karina.” Her name comes out embarrassingly strangled. You’re pulling her thighs further apart, toying with the edge of her underwear. “You’re such a fucking - you’re so needy.”

Her smirk sharpens even as you tug her panties roughly to the side. “I’m what?”

“Needy.”

“No.” She’s so wet - she’s probably seconds from dissolving into a whimpering breathless thing, begging to be underneath you, begging for more. That damn smirk is probably seconds from shattering completely. “What were you going to call me?”

“Nothing.” You drag a finger down the slick drenched heat of her cunt.

“A slut.” Her voice is a purr, gravelly and sensual. “You think I’m just this fucking slut who needs your cock all the time, huh?”

But it’s the kind of question that you already both know the answer to. Karina takes your finger-fucking so well, hips raised and rutting, hair cutting across her cheekbones - seems to give herself over to desire so fucking easily, with her whole body, back arching and neck craned and hot little cunt a sloppy mess. Never puts up a fight, never demures or acts shy; never says wait or don’t or stop. Only spreads her legs, and drips down your hand, and waits to be fucked good and hard.

And - hey, there’s one dirty word for a girl like that.

“Well.” You raise your eyebrows at her: a challenge. “Are you?”

It’s dangerous. This is all dangerous. Stumbling down a treacherous path, asking a stranger something like this. Are you what I think you are? Do I know you? Do I really?

Karina makes a low, luxurious noise at the stretch of your fingers in her cunt, buried to the knuckle.

“Sure,” she says - and the gleam in her eye tells you she knows exactly what she’s getting herself into. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”

So, it’s possible this is really the most interesting thing about her: she’s the kind of girl who never says no.

That scene goes down how all scenes should:

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Karina’s choking out curses like she can’t recall any other words, head lolling back to expose the pretty bob of her throat. You thrust deep right then and she lets out a sound like an aching gasp, like you’ve doubled down with a fist to her gut, like you’re knocking the the air right out of her; you might as well be - oh, she moans, like she could be in shock or awe or pain - with the way you’ve got one of her thighs pulled up so you can fuck deep into her tight dripping cunt. It’s not nice, not really. Her back keeps hitting your counter. You keep staring at her neck and her hair and her face: the faint flush of her cheeks, the flawless construction of her bones underneath - there’s so much unmarked skin - God, she’s so clean, it’s like she’s never been fucking touched-

“You gonna cum for me?” you murmur, voice coming out thick and half-animalistic.

She has one hand curled around the back of your neck. She’s got those ridiculous clawed nails on her but she never presses down. Her pussy can’t stop clenching around your cock but she takes it so well, lets you make room inside her little cunt, shuts her eyes and trips over her own breath as you force her spine hard against your counter over and over again.

“Karina.”

“Yeah,” she exhales, raspy and strained, as your cock stretches her out. “Fuck, yeah-”

“Cum for me, honey. Cum all over my cock - oh, there you go, good girl-”

It’s hypnotic. The tiny bitten-off sounds spilling from her ice-cold mouth - that small pristine face and all that hair tangled to her waist, just available to be knotted and tugged and fucked all the way up - Karina clings to you when she cums, and you feel so much bigger than her when she does, like you’ve got her sloppy and open around your cock and you could do anything to her, that’s what she told you, and even if she hadn’t, it’s not like she could stop you - she’s gorgeous but she doesn’t have it in her - she’s just too fucking delicate-

It happens too fast to process.

One minute you’re buried inside her pussy and the next Karina’s on her knees, on the ground, and you’re jerking your cock until you’re cumming all over her.

It’s obscene. It’s fucking inevitable. Thick ropes of creamy cum coating her forehead, her cheekbone, her nose and mouth and getting all in that hair-

Her hair. You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping her hair with one hand - balled in a brutal fist at the back of her head - until you disentangle your fingers from it and Karina sinks to the floor like she’s just been cut loose from marionette strings, breathing fast and hard. She doesn’t even say anything: doesn’t comment on the fact that you’d just shoved her straight to the ground or complain when the head of your cock smears cum across her jaw. Doesn’t even flinch when your cock slaps heavy across her cheek, at the indecent sound of the impact.

You’re staring at her, open-mouthed. At her gorgeous, breathtaking, defiled face.

Karina’s not looking at you. Instead, she’s preening in the most lewd, pornographic way possible: swiping her thumb through the cum streaking across her forehead, popping it into her mouth to suck. Halfway through she seems to remember you’re still in the room - seems to recall the value of a performance - and she redirects her gaze up at you, lids heavy, and smirks.

“Did I…” you start, without knowing how the sentence will end. “Did I - was I-”

Karina lifts a cum-covered eyebrow. Her mouth’s an arresting pink, puckering around her thumb like it puckered around the cubes of ice, how her lips formed a ring around your cock back in the bookstore yesterday. She lets it slip free, shiny with spit.

“No,” she says. “You’re good.”

You can’t stop looking at the cum caught in her hairline. She’d been so fucking clean.

You glance down and realize there are strands of black hair broken off in your clenched fist.

Karina’s looking at her hair in your hand too, now, but with a sort of amused detachment. She stands shakily, using the counter for support. There’s cum all over her. Her knees are red from how hard she’d been pushed down.

“You’re so cute,” she tells you, grazing the side of your neck with her fingertips. “There’s no shame in being rough with me, babe.”

“Right.” There’s an unnamed pressure coiling in your chest. “But - but you-”

“Hey.” The word comes out in a rasp, and then Karina laughs, pushing the low hoarse lilt of her voice to its limits. She steps closer, angles her little cum-stained chin up at you. “Are you really gonna tell me you don’t like seeing me covered in your cum?” She’s tonguing the corner of her mouth. “Turning me into a-” her smirk pulls wicked; your next breath hitches so badly- “messy fucking whore for your cock?”

“God,” you get out, because she’s winding an arm around your neck, and her pretty face is still sticky with your cum. “I-”

“It’s what you wanted.” Karina blinks, in a show of such doe-eyed naïveté that saliva begins pooling hot in your mouth - like you’re feral, like you’re rabid. “Isn’t it?”

You’re looking down again. Her knees are going to bruise. Black and blue, as if someone’s bullied her in the schoolyard, pulled her pigtails and knocked her to the asphalt. An echo of something teachers could’ve told her years ago: oh, look, he’s mean to you because he’s got a crush. It’s okay, really - he only hurts you because he likes you.

“You like me like this,” Karina murmurs, dangerously low. “All sloppy and slutty for you.” Her gaze is trained on your mouth. “Marking me up.” Her hair slips from your hand. “Owning me.”

Her name clogs your throat, cloying and candy-sweet. “Karina-”

Karina’s head tilts. “Yes or no?”

She’s too close to you. She’s so filthily beautiful she seems somewhat alien, some kind of foreign invention. Her jaw is smeared with your cum and her flawless teeth shine like jewels and she’s like every creative vision you’ve ever had cut in clips and playing back in a movie theater, made to be scrutinized.

“Yes,” you tell her, winded. “You’re fucking - you’re unreal, you know that?”

You’re smiling like it’s flattery, like it’s an exaggeration. Like she’s not living, breathing, visionary art.

She smiles back, like she knows just how much you really mean it.

“So I’ve been told,” Karina says, and taps your neck, lightly. “Go make breakfast.” She shakes her hair out; some of it gets stuck to the cum on her cheekbone. “I’m taking another shower.”

“Right.” You bite into your bottom lip, hand skimming down her side. “Go get clean.”

“Clean?” She steps back and flashes a disbelieving grin, gestures pointedly at herself - her creamy thighs, her porn star tits in your t-shirt, her body like sex itself. Dirty by design. “Never happening.”

Some cynical part of you keeps waiting for a slip-up, some mistake in a masterfully crafted script - no one can be that gorgeous and still be here with you. But Karina moves and your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the disheveled curtain of her hair spiraling down her back, the sharp distinct lines of her calves, the flex of muscle in her thighs. Her hands, balled into little fists. She’s alluring as if manufactured that way: engineered to be perfectly bruisable, ruinable. It defies logic. It’s movie magic.

“Well.” You snort with laughter, swat at Karina’s ass as she turns to go. “At least you can try.”

You don’t even think she can help it - that’s the thing. It’s just what she was made for.

“What would you have done if I said no, though?” you ask after a moment, as she wavers in the doorway. “Like - what if I told you I didn’t like you like this?”

Karina shrugs.

“I would’ve been something else,” she says, and closes the bathroom door behind her.

(Next:

The stranger and the girl fuck and afterwards he promises her breakfast and then he realizes his cabinets are bare, his fridge painfully unstocked. Sorry, he says, as she pokes around his kitchen. I don’t know how that happened. I usually have something to eat here, I swear.

I don’t mind, she says. Her fingertips sweep his shelves. She seems fascinated by the emptiness, admiring the vacancy. Oh, wait, look.

She finds a half-eaten jar of honey that she ends up scooping up crudely with her fingers, dripping sticky amber down her hand. He’d tell her that’s disgusting but she makes it - as she seems to make everything - into a pointed seduction, her tongue pink and wetly visible, her skin gleaming as she licks it off. It’s funny. He’d never thought it possible to turn eating into some sort of sexual performance but she manages it anyway: meets his eyes, sucks loud and lewd, smacks her lips and wipes her mouth with her thumb, ill-mannered and stunning.

I can’t imagine that’s very filling, he says, delighted by her commitment.

Yeah, well, she says. It’s a good thing I hate feeling full.

But it seems like a moment of hilarious irony when ten minutes later he’s got her bent over his kitchen counter, tits pressed punishingly to the flat surface, honey stuck to her neck and collarbone as she’s fucked hard again and again, stuffed with his cock, his fingers everywhere, like her own body barely even belongs to her - all mine, he keeps saying, and means it; you’re all mine. All filled up. Overfed. Bursting.

Sex is a manner of consuming, it seems. He might as well be eating her alive.)

“Do you do this a lot?”

Eventually, it turns into one of those lazy Saturdays. An afternoon of sitcom plot points.

It’s just so easy to fill the time, the space, the page - you tell Karina some inane story from your college years and she reacts in all the right places like your own built-in studio audience; she says something off-handed and enticingly vague and suddenly you have a new thread of dialogue to explore. You’re both sprawled out over your couch, Karina’s got her thighs tucked over your legs, wearing another one of your t-shirts, a fresh hickey bruising over her throat. There’s something delightfully domestic about it - like you’ve been doing it for a lot longer than you have, or like you could do it eternally if given the chance, holding all the silken comfort of an old routine. When you’d mentioned it - I kind of feel like I could do this forever - she’d laughed her scratchy laugh and said forever’s nowhere near as long as you think it is, babe. A perfectly cinematic line. You stared at her, leaned over, and added it immediately to your draft.

“This whole…” You’re trying to elaborate now, staring at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen. Your knuckles skim her bare, bony knees. “You know.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you were a writer.”

“Karina.” You’re charmed by the drawl of her voice, the raspy roll of sarcasm. “I’m just wondering.”

Karina shifts in your lap. You’ve got one hand sneaking up the hem of her shirt - your shirt - skating up her tummy, her ribs. You’re probably about five minutes from snapping your laptop shut and pulling her on top of you and saying something crass about her tits and passing it off as a character study.

“What do you mean?” She’s as close to clean as she can be. You made sure of it - licked the hollow of her collarbone earlier after she got out of the shower, tasted nothing but soap and skin. “Do I have a lot of sex with strangers? Or do I stay the night a lot after I have sex with strangers?”

“Both.” You think of taking her hair down, sifting your hand through it, wrapping the strands around your fingers. “All of the above.”

Karina shoots you a look, fluttered lashes, suggestive understanding. You hear it without her having to say it. You want me to tell you that you’re special.

“I’ve kind of been going through a phase,” she says instead, nonchalantly.

Your eyebrows fly up. “A phase?”

“I’ve been, you know.” She gives an airy sigh. “Trying to find myself in the big city. Running wild. Terrified of monogamy but being very brave and quirky about it. Sordid past with love and romance and general human connection. Doing the whole manic pixie dream girl thing.” Her eyes flick to your open laptop, abruptly too wide and innocent. “That sound about right?”

“Fuck off.” It’s a complete non-answer. You run a hand past her stomach, laughing. “You’re fucking with me.”

“What?” Karina inches closer. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your textbook rom-com love interest?”

You make a rather disparaging sound in the back of your throat. “Ugh.”

“Oh, my bad.” Her mouth curls, contradictory. There’s nothing apologetic about her. “I forgot. You don’t believe in art about love. You wanna see broken people and broken people only.”

“See?” You’re obsessed with her tone; all flirtation, some distorted version of come-hither charm. Talking of suffering like it’s a seduction tactic. “You get it.”

Karina rakes a hand through her hair; her fingers fall to the back of her neck and linger there. She pulls herself out of your lap and turns, hooks one bare long leg over you until she’s straddling you. Your hands find her hips. You’re disarmed by her strange weightlessness, like she’s seconds from either shattering or taking flight.

Then she asks, “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

It’s gotta be a very roundabout request to fuck her stupid, because she follows it up torturously: ducks her chin, parts her lips, rocks her hips down until you groan. You watch her throat, the way muscle works over bone, picturing unspeakable things: taking her by that pretty neck and pinning her to the wall, ripping your shirt right off of her with your fingertips leaving bruises - bending her over to fuck her fast and cruel until her cunt’s raw and aching and leaking your cum - until she’s begging pathetically, saying please, God, please - and you’re triumphant, victorious. Telling her you asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything. You said anything I want.

“Depends,” you reply, when you can breathe again. “Are you a broken person?”

Karina stops, moments from your mouth.

“Depends,” she echoes. “Is that what you want from me?”

It actually takes a beat for the question to sink in. Then two, then-

“No,” you say, loudly. “Obviously not, Karina, Jesus. Why would I…”

You falter.

Karina only looks back at you, patient, tolerant. Like if right now you said that’s exactly it: I want you broken, I want you ruined, I want you decaying and dead and buried, she’d smile and say do your worst. Flashing those white, white teeth, perfect like pearls, ready to be knocked right out and strung together.

You blink the bloody vision away. “Why would I ever want that?”

Karina studies you for a second longer, expression indecipherable.

“Okay,” she agrees, breezily. “Then I’m not broken. I’m just going through a phase, like I said. I don’t like being tied down.” Her shirt rides tantalizingly high up her thighs; her hand slips down to palm your cock. There’s a twist to her lips, a dirty sort of smirk. “You understand that, right?”

You stare at her.

“Right?” Karina prods, again, low and sultry.

“Right,” you say, unable to fight your sudden smile.

The pout of her mouth’s an inevitability; her little body in your lap’s a seductive form of foreshadowing. You dig your fingers into her protruding ribs, playful, and you don’t quite get the squeal of laughter you were expecting - all Karina does is curl closer, expecting more, expecting harder. She knows what you’re capable of. You’re both just biding your time until you cross the same line you’ve been crossing and you fall back into bed again.

“A phase,” you add, considering. It intrigues you, anyway - the casualness, the connotation. “So - I’m not special, then. That’s the moral of this story.”

Karina’s fingers sift gently through your hair. “You wanna be special?”

“I mean, yeah.” Your palm falls to her neck, presses down. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Her eyebrows rise in vague, unconvinced amusement. It makes sense: she’s the most special of all, a cosmic glitch, an angelic fluke. Someone like Karina wouldn’t understand the aching, clawing, consuming desire to be extraordinary. She’s already there.

Your hand on her throat looks even bigger now, tendons straining from underneath skin.

“I think we all want to feel important,” you mumble, thumb grazing gently across her jaw. “Don’t you?”

You’re pretty sure the wry, glittering smile that sits at Karina’s mouth is an answer in itself.

Alright, forget your television metaphors - you’re not sure there’s any sitcom out there that goes quite like this.

“By the way,” you say, grinning against her hair as you pull her to the bedroom. “Did you say you don’t like being tied down?”

Karina turns in your arms and doesn’t even flinch when you force her too hard against the doorframe and its edge smacks into her shoulder blade, digging in hard. You should apologize but you don’t; the possibility of her in pain seems laughable, a distant fantasy. This is how it goes, fucking a girl who looks like a god - your brain is convinced she’s wholly immune to hurt. The universe wouldn’t actually let someone so pretty bleed.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, voice raspy with insinuation. “Let me rephrase.”

“Karina,” you say, not really like a warning - more like you’ve got something to prove. This is real. You’re really here. You’re really this perfect, gorgeous, greedy thing. You’re really made for me.

Karina only lets her lips tilt in a smirk, devilish and knowing.

“I meant that I don’t like commitment,” she says. “I love being tied down.”

She’s still smiling when you shove her through the doorway, across the threshold - across that same old fucking line.

Not that it makes a difference now, but one of the reasons you and your most recent ex-girlfriend broke up was because of what you’d both referred to as sexual incompatibility. Actually, there were about fourteen other things, too - she was a trainwreck and a textbook attention whore; you spent all your time writing and she took offense to the fact that you found your scripts more interesting than her - but the crux of the sex problem between the two of you was that she thought you wanted too much power over her. She seemed to assume that was the point of potentially tying her up and shit like that: to exert power. To put you and only you in control. To make her into this helpless little toy - and I hate that, she’d said, working herself into a fit, I hate feeling helpless.

You hadn’t pushed her. You’d also tried to justify it in a number of ways. It isn’t about that. It’s not about control. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. But it hadn’t made a difference and she hadn’t believed you and you’d come to the reluctant, inevitable conclusion that that particular dream would never actually get fulfilled.

Until-

“Look at you, baby.”

Until now, when you’ve got Karina stripped bare and tied to your bed, thighs parted as you kneel over her, pretty little cunt glistening wet and tits heaving with every breath as she waits, and waits, and waits.

Eyes half-lidded. Utterly fuckable. A curated collection of every salacious desire you’ve ever had.

“You’ve been looking at me forever,” murmurs Karina, her tone still humorous, like the reason her voice is run so ragged is because she’s holding back a fit of giggles. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?”

To Karina’s credit, the idea of tying her up didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She’d let you knot her wrists to your bedframe and only grinned sharply when you asked her if it was too much. She didn’t seem to care about feeling helpless or feeling bad. Actually - judging from the wetness that collects on your fingers as you rub two of them over her cunt - it all seemed to turn her on either way.

“You’re so fucking mouthy.” You lift your hand only to ghost it over her stomach, leaving a lewd shiny streak across her skin. “It’s like you want to be punished.”

“Well, you put in all this work.” Karina yanks at the ropes tethering her wrists to the bedframe until they bite so severely into her skin that it turns white. “I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“Not a waste.”

“No?” She’s got that seductive little smirk on, legs spread shamelessly, head back and throat bared.

“Nope.” Your eyes rove down her body. “It’s a great view, actually.”

You’re shocked by the sound Karina makes, then: harsh and derisive, scratchy and painful, like she’s choking badly around some injury in her throat. You’re half-expecting her to turn her face and spit blood onto your sheets - all murder-scene evidence, horrifically vibrant gore. Coughing up her own vocal chords.

It’s so awful it actually takes you a minute to realize that she’s laughing.

“Karina?” you say, perturbed.

“Oh, please.” Karina hacks out one more horrid laugh. “Cut the shit.”

You draw your hand back uncertainly. “What are you-”

“Come on, man.” There’s a glint to Karina’s gaze as she looks up at you: bored, mocking, infuriating. Irises flashing like the darkest corners of haunted houses, set-ups for a summoning; lashes like cobwebs, self-spun and delicate. “Fuck me or leave me alone.”

For a second you just stare at her, unmoving, something caustic and furious threading up your spine.

And then-

Look, none of this next part is on you. You can’t blame yourself. It’s her - her tiny hands in tight clenched fists, tummy so flat it seems caved-in, hollowed-out; her own glimmer of slick smeared on her belly, physical proof of how desperately slutty she really is. The bruise on her chest; the one on her throat. Her goddamn eyes. Her lazy, lilting drawl, the exact matter-of-fact casualness she’d had last night when she’d told you to hurt her - fuck me or leave me alone.

It’s so obvious what she’s trying to do - provoke a reaction out of you. It’s gotta be the only reason she’s talking to you like that. Like, what else are we here for? Like, what else could I possibly want from you?

So - no, God, it’s not your fault.

But-

It’s over before you can even think about it. Before you’ve even rationalized doing it, before you recognize the sound ricocheting through the room as the perfect violent land of a blow, the hot whiplash of skin on skin, your palm connecting with its target. Before you blink, and recalibrate, and you take in the rapid reddening of her cheek, and her angled jaw, and her hair falling starkly past her chin - it’s too late. It’s already done.

Because you’ve just slapped Karina clean across the face - hard.

“Oh.” You’re babbling as if on autopilot, all your nerves on shutdown. “Oh. Oh, God. Karina-”

Karina licks the corner of her lip, like she can taste the impact.

“Jesus Christ,” you’re saying, panicking; you can’t shut up. You don’t know what to do with your hands; you find yourself kneeling carefully in front of her, cupping her face, stroking her temples with your thumbs like it’ll soothe the sting. You can’t believe you hit her. All the things you could do to a girl like that, and you - “I’m sorry. I didn’t - fuck, baby. I’m sorry.”

Karina blinks up at you, expression placid and blank, porcelain-doll cool.

“For what?” she asks.

You freeze, her face still between your palms. “For-”

But the serene tilt of her mouth makes the words die in your throat.

“Seriously.” Karina’s voice is softer now, a kind twist of mirth. “Isn’t that what you wanted to do with me this whole time?”

Her features seem to fall out of alignment, occurring to you in cut, edited fragments - the baby-animal eyes, the bone-white glint of teeth, the pretty blooming flush of her cheek, blood rising underneath skin but never breaking through. No evidence of a limit breached; she doesn’t wince or wail or cry. She wears the hit so well. She’s smiling. A you-don’t-need-to-be-sorry smile, a you’re-forgiven smile: I’m strong, I’m good, I can take it. Whatever you need. Whatever you have to give.

You blink and Karina reassembles, stitched up at the seams, beautiful and uninjured and intact.

“You want this,” you exhale, a wondrous revelation.

“Of course.” Karina’s shoulders rise as much as they can with her arms so tightly tied back. “You do, don’t you?”

The panic recedes, and something else - something electric and brutal, visceral, intoxicating - takes its place instead.

It’s the way she says it: rhetorical, all-knowing. As if she’s seen exactly what’s in your mind - what repulsive daydreams have settled right behind your ribcage, clawing to be set free - and she’s offering her own body in sacrifice. Saying here, put them here.

So you do.

She doesn’t even look surprised when you slap her again.

“See?” Karina’s chin tips upwards in delicious, submissive invitation: eyes darkly pleased, pale skin a burning wildfire, curled mouth a beckoning. Like it’s been what she’s waiting for, all along. “There you are.”

And when you’re finally able to catch your breath:

Oh, you think, in some exhilarating epiphany. Here I am.

Every single reservation falls out the window. Karina’s smirk slants viciously and then you’ve got your hands all over her, on her shoulders and her tits and her hips and her throat and her face, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Any sort of gentle caution is gone when you’re getting on top of her and burying your cock deep inside the suffocating vice of her aching little cunt, half-drunk on the high mewling moans you’re forcing out of her, head swimming at the drenched audible sound of her pussy every time you fuck into her - at how tight she clenches down around your cock. Fuck it all, then, it’s not like it means anything - hurt me, she’d said, running through your head on loop; I want it so bad, I need it, hurt me - and so you do, wrapping a hand around her delicate neck and pressing down, slapping hard against her heaving tits, salivating over the marks that you leave. She doesn’t even struggle. Takes it like a good girl, an obedient girl: something meant to be hit and torn up and pulled apart. A hands-on art piece. A disassembling, made purely for audience consumption; a sign hung around her neck that says leave your mark, that’s the point. You’d been so naïve, thinking of being careful with her - like she’d ever even fucking want that-

“You like it like this.” Your voice sounds raw, almost unrecognizable; your fingers press into the base of her throat. “This is all you needed, huh? You just needed to be roughed up real hard.” Your hand trails up to grip a fistful of her hair, merciless. Karina shuts her eyes. “Like you’re just a slutty fucktoy-”

Karina chokes out a small, wet gasp.

“Oh, baby.” You yank harder at her hair. “It’s okay to admit it.”

But in a way, she already is. Doesn’t fight against the restraints tying her wrists, doesn’t flinch at how rough you’re fucking her, doesn’t whine or blink back tears at the harsh graze of your thumbnail against her nipple. Like she’s a plaything, here in your bed for your pleasure alone. Like-

“Like you were just fucking made for this, yeah?” She comes undone so easily: cunt a wet sticky mess when you reach down to rub her clit, teeth pearly-white where they’re caught on her bottom lip - though nothing can hold back the anguished noise Karina lets out at your pace, the thick stretch of your cock, your palm smacking at her tits over and over. “Look at you. That face, these tits, this little fucking cunt-”

Like it’s her one and only purpose - to have all her fair skin turned searing red and bruised under someone else’s hands. Her cunt just begging to be split open and stuffed full, railed so hard she could break. It’s gotta be what she was created for. She’s more than mortal, so above the concept of imperfection; a nasty little fuckdoll of a girl, meant to be used hard and licked clean. She looks too irresistible all fucked-out and ruined. It has to be in her nature. Made for this, you keep telling her: to be fucked until she can’t walk. To be treated forever how you’re treating her now.

Your ex-girlfriend couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s not about power or control at all.

“You’d really just let me do anything to you, huh?” you murmur, awed, but you’re holding her throat too hard for her to reply.

You fuck her, and fuck her, and fuck her. Rub at her clit until she clamps down and cums around you, until you can really get on top of her, force her to hold those huge tits together so you can fuck them. You can’t handle how tiny she is underneath you, her face and her mouth slack with lust, eyes glazed over entirely. She squeezes her tits around your cock. She’s hardly even human. It’s the best thing about her.

“That’s how I know you’re a fucking whore.” Your grin feels wide and manic on your face. You’re gonna cum all over her - again. “None of this even matters.”

And it’s only after - after you’ve painted her collarbone and chest creamy white and let up on her throat so she can fight for air; after you’ve groped her tits and grabbed her face after just to see your cum glistening all over her perfect slap-marred cheeks; after you’ve rolled off of her and you finally leave her alone - that Karina gives you a response.

“No,” she says, hoarsely, staring up at the ceiling. “It really, really doesn’t.”

Power just isn’t the right word for it. It’s something much more beautiful than that.

Desire. You’re dozing off, halfway in a sleepy fantasy. You imagine rolling the word around in your mouth, using it in speeches, citing it as an obvious central theme. It’s about desire, you’d say, in interviews, at film festivals, patiently explaining your motivations to the masses. That irrational animal instinct. That innate human greediness. You’ll maybe even throw in some fun anecdote about how people in past relationships never agreed with you. It’s never been about power, though, you’d explain: how foolish, how crude. It’s about the ache of truly wanting something. Isn’t that so much more romantic?

So you’ll make a movie about this one day. So you tied Karina to the bed and slapped her hard and fucked her senseless. Actually, you picture yourself explaining, foggy and on verge of falling asleep: actually, it’s about hunger. Irrepressible, all-consuming hunger. That’s why I did this. That’s why I’ll keep doing it. You’re all like me; you get it. That makes sense, doesn’t it?

And it will, to raucous, riotous applause.

Good. You’ll laugh so hard. You’re dreaming, now; you can’t tell if you’re talking about the sex or the hypothetical future movie. I’m glad you understand. Anyone would’ve done what I did.

Because - honestly - what’s the point of starving yourself of something that’s right in front of you?

(Let’s pull back from your script for a second. Here’s a real story:

A few months back you were visiting a museum with one of your friends when you got into this conversation about performance art. He’d told you about a woman back in the seventies who walked into a gallery and laid out various objects and let the audience do whatever they wanted to her for six whole hours. Her as the artist, in title only; herself as the art. A free, untethered canvas.

And what happened? you asked, morbidly curious.

Your friend grimaced. What do you think happened?

It was a rhetorical question. The performance had been a test of what the general public was capable of - a reflection of their moral compass, of what they’d do if left unchecked. The setup spoke for itself. You didn’t have to get all the gory details in order to understand.

Seriously, though, your friend said, about the artist: I don’t know what’d compel someone to do something like that to themselves. He’d shaken his head, baffled. Like - I think it takes a deeply fucked up person to just give up their body like that. Like it doesn’t even matter to them.

It’s strange. It’s an almost universally accepted fact that, at least on some level, artists are inclined to put pieces of themselves into the things they create. A memory; a feeling. Condensing twenty different emotions into a single acrylic painting, or a lyrical reenactment of heartbreak into a song - something personal and unique and lovely. Often inspired, sure, but yours.

I think that’s what’s funny about it, you told your friend, before you realized that funny was a fucked up word to use here. There’s nothing personal about that. It’s so detached. It’s about the rest of the world, whatever they might make of her - it’s not about her at all.

You were both quiet, thinking. Visualizing what it might’ve been like. To be there, one of many in the audience, watching this woman who had thrown herself to the wolves and asked to be ripped apart.

She’s just - material for them to use, I guess, you said, after a moment. A blank page.

Removing her own identity; becoming nothing, no one. A ghost. An empty vessel. A slab of clay, taking on the impression of everyone who’s ever touched her: the ridges of fingerprints, the half-moon cuts of nails, molding her into something new. Even if it took some force. Even if it hurt.

Still, it’s what she’d asked for.

You can’t imagine she’d ever expected anything else.)

There’s this fascinating complaint people have about films these days, you’ve found. It’s actually quite the phenomenon. You talk to your colleagues and scroll through social media and read comments on movie trailers trying to get a grasp on it all: market research. This isn’t realistic, people gripe. It’d never sound like that. She’d never look like that. This would never, ever happen - God, are you kidding? Who are they trying to fool? As if they’ve somehow missed the point of fiction - of a sweet, escapist fantasy. As if they’ve convinced themselves that the real world is better.

Which is moronic, obviously.

“So what’s the solution?” Karina asks.

Well, you’re no expert; it’s been a while since you’d finished your last movie.

“But you have an idea,” Karina interpets. She’s perched on the edge of your coffee table, nursing a new glass of ice. She’s watching you with her head at an angle, eyes shrewd. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me this.”

As with most of her guesses about you, she’s right.

“It’s all about the details,” you say, after a moment. “It humanizes a person. Having little bits and pieces about who they are - it makes them alive. Their likes, their dislikes. Embarrassing stories. Things that make them laugh. Diary entries, favorite foods - first loves, first heartbreaks. So on and so forth.” You’ve got one of Karina’s ankles between your hands; your thumb brushes against the bulbous protrusion of bone. “It’s what makes people real.”

Karina’s mouth twists, sharp and strange; it takes a second for you to realize that she’s grinning.

“Oh, right,” she says. “You want me to spill my guts to you.” She pushes her ankle further into your grip. Her legs are just like the rest of her: thin and pale, waifish. Like a nineties catwalk model. “That’s how you’re gonna make me real. In your movie.”

You pull a face, letting her ankle slip from your hands. Spill her guts; what an ugly figure of speech. As if you’re doing something much more invasive and violent than just writing about her.

“Basically,” you agree, anyway. “I mean, it helps that you’re already, you know - a real, whole, living person.”

“Ugh,” says Karina, dry and amused. “Barely.”

You wonder if she’s also thinking about this morning; you, stunned and staring at her cum-streaked hair, calling her unreal.

She’s got a point, in a way. There’s something slightly uncanny about her sitting in front of you, as if she’s been taken straight out of some wildly different scene - some spotlit stage, some movie set, some glossy high-budget existence - and haphazardly edited into your life. You reach out and press two fingers to the side of her neck, like they do on television if they think someone’s bleeding out.

Karina tips her head to allow you access. Her pulse throbs hotly under your touch.

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at the swanlike line of her throat. “You seem pretty alive to me.”

“Sure.” Her hair tickles your wrist. “But you want more.”

She says it like it’s this given - as if she’s always faced with people wanting more from her. You wouldn’t doubt it, little tease she is. You can picture her in motion so easily. Always running. Letting people pine and plead for more.

“Yeah,” you say. It seems pointless to lie to her. “I want more.”

Karina leans in closer. She reaches up and touches one of your knuckles with the pad of her thumb. Without makeup, you can see the shadows of dark circles underneath her eyes, but even those look painted-on, pre-planned; a study on the aesthetic allure of bruises. She lets her gaze drop to your mouth, then bites down on her bottom lip. Impish.

“Karina,” you say, grinning wider now.

It’s one of those unspoken things: the translation of body language, the transcription of the tilt of her mouth. Then have me, she’s saying, almost certainly - like a swooning melodramatic heroine, throwing herself into your lap, wanting to be saved. You want more? You want me? I’m right here. I’m yours.

“Fine,” Karina purrs, and kisses you again, like sealing a contract. “Take it all.”

You don’t fuck her again - not at first. There’s more than one way to take someone apart.

Karina says she’s got a story for you and then she pulls out her phone.

“This was back in high school,” she explains, scrolling back through her photo gallery. There don’t seem to be a lot of recent additions to it; you’d expected selfies, pictures of her with friends. There are more photos of food than anything: plates of pasta and donuts and burgers and pastries piled with whipped cream. It’s cute. It makes you laugh. “When I won prom queen.”

You splutter. “When you what?”

“What?” Karina gives you a bemused, sideways look. “Does that surprise you?”

It floors you, actually. At first you can’t quite put your finger on why, but then you look at Karina again - at her intense dark eyes and pouty fuckdoll lips and the exaggerated pinup proportions of her body - and you realize you’re making that mistake writers often do: buying into archetypes. It just makes sense that she’d be some kind of brooding bad girl. Mysterious, promiscuous; in your creative vision she’s probably cutting classes and chainsmoking in the girls’ bathroom. A favorite of the rumor mill. A pretty little delinquent.

“Wow.” Karina makes a funny noise in the back of her throat when you tell her this. “No. I was - I did fine in school. Perfect attendance, almost. And I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes.” But she doesn’t look offended, either; you imagine people make these assumptions about her all the time. “The prom queen thing - it wasn’t my idea, though. My best friend did all the campaigning for me.”

“That’s sweet.” You watch as she reaches the year she’s looking for. Flashes of her in a sparkly dress with her arms thrown around another girl - a tiny doe-eyed brunette - slide by. In one of them, Karina’s got her head tipped back, clearly mid-laugh; in another, she and the girl have their heads bent close together as if they’re trading secrets, unaware that they’re being photographed. “Well - I think it’s sweet.”

Karina’s fingers stall. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just saying-” You shrug. “It’s a nice gesture if it’s something you wanted, I guess. Seems like a lot of attention, otherwise.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Yeah. It was - I didn’t get to go to junior prom, so it was kind of - this was - senior year. Senior prom.” Another pause. “Yeah. She did it to make me happy.”

“And did it?” She passes by pictures that fill up with more people: friends with big grins who stick close to her side, wrapping her up in an embrace. “Make you happy?”

“Of course.” Karina’s thumb pauses on a video, the preview dark and unfocused. She says it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “She was my best friend. She always knew what I wanted. Hey, look at this.”

The video’s of her in the back of someone’s car, prom queen tiara askew on her head, satiny sash falling off one shoulder. She’s yelling, laughing; the sound isn’t on, but her mouth’s wide open and her dark eyes are crinkled to half-moons, creased underneath heavy false lashes and glittery makeup that’s begun to smudge and fade. It makes her whole face look very soft. Young, too - cheeks full and flushed pink with excitement, hair blown-out and everywhere, glossed black. As if she’s having the time of her life.

“How old were you here?” you ask, in awe.

“Eighteen. Just turned, I think.”

“You look-” Like a baby, you almost want to say. It’s true, though. Big brown eyes, scrunched little nose - grinning like the rest of the world hasn’t quite dug its claws into her yet. Skin unmarred and infant-smooth. “You look pretty.”

Karina doesn’t look at you, but you can see the slight, entertained upturn of her lips. All the nasty things you’ve called her - all the irredeemable ways you’ve touched her - and now, inexplicably, you’re going for pretty.

“Thanks,” she says, and clicks the volume up.

“Shut the fuck up,” baby Karina is saying, delightedly. Her voice sounds high, childish and carefree. “You’re so dumb. It wasn’t - it wasn’t even like that, I swear!” She flaps one hand in the air, her nails all short and painted the same rich deep maroon as her dress. “No - you’re just saying that because you’re jealous, you idiot, I know you - you just-”

The person behind the camera says something that you can’t quite make out.

Baby Karina presses one hand to her sternum, pearl-clutching, and gasps.

“I would never,” she admonishes - over-the-top like an actress from a movie - before she throws her head back and laughs.

It’s a startling, wonderful laugh. A little-kid laugh. A mess of wild, unabashed giggles, hiccupy and sweet, so loud and infectious you can hear the other people in the car start cracking up with her; out of frame, someone reaches out to interlace their fingers with Karina’s, waving their joined hands until they smack against the car window and Karina only laughs harder. With her whole body, shoulders shaking and all. Streetlights flashing across her face, making her look sort of blurry and surreal, like something out of a painting.

“Your laugh,” you find yourself saying, stunned.

Karina’s touching the back of her neck, completely engrossed in the video. “My what?”

You don’t laugh like that anymore. That’s what you mean to say. That scratchy, almost painful laugh that she’s been gracing you with since the moment you met her - there’s no trace of that in how baby Karina wriggles with laughter in the backseat of the car until her happy, breathless blush spreads to her neck and her chest. Head tipping back against the seat, like she’s all tuckered out.

“Um,” you say, voice caught in your throat.

On the screen, her eyes fall shut, lashes fluttering so delicately.

You can’t do anything but stare. Brilliant, past-life, prom-queen Karina - grinning at nothing, and sleepy from a perfect night, and laughing as if she’ll exist as this version of herself forever. As if she just doesn’t know any better, yet.

“You,” you start to say, again-

Karina shuts her phone off, and turns.

And you’re about to say something - something about the gnawing, uncertain feeling you get when you watch this former self of hers. It’s on the tip of your tongue. You don’t laugh like that. Something happened to you. For a moment the whole image just seems off - like the way people make posthumous holograms of pop stars, superimpose faces of long-dead actors on stunt doubles. A kind of intense wrongness. A murmured, uncomfortable: that’s not really you, is it? It can’t be. I barely recognize her.

“What?” Karina asks. Her smile reveals her teeth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Then reality hits you, all at once.

“Sorry.” Your hand finds her thigh. You laugh because you’re being ridiculous - how would you know who she really is, anyway? “I was just thinking - I don’t know. Never mind.”

She seems to take that at face value. You like that about her. How she seems to trust so easily - going home with you, winding up in your bed, staying when you ask her to stay. Giving you whatever you want: her body, her story.

“So,” you say, eventually. “I can put in my movie that you totally peaked in high school, huh?”

Karina snorts. “Yeah,” she says, playing along, and taps her dark phone screen with a clawed nail. “Say it was the last time I was happy.” She pulls a face, like the thought of it is just unspeakably pathetic. “That’s a tragedy if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Shakespearean,” you agree, and let her clamber into your lap. “It’s perfect.”

But you know she’s kidding. You’d like to think that you understand girls like her. They live in a different world than the rest of you - the kind of world where every person on earth looks at them and falls to their feet, falls madly in love. You’ll write about it one day; you’ll feel out the narrative for her, a curious exploration. That rose-tinted life she must flourish in, closed-off and flawless like a snow globe, her spinning and protected in the glass.

“Perfect,” echoes Karina, and kisses you - like she’s proving she really means it.

That’s the reality, here. That’s it. This is all there is.

Well, almost.

Karina lets you scroll through the rest of her photo gallery, front to back. You take the opportunity, because you’re greedy for as much as you can get.

There’s a lot of photos that are just her, funnily enough - selfies posed in front of the same full-length mirror, over and over again, clad in unholy outfits. Swimsuits, sports bras and little running shorts, lingerie: shit that makes your mouth water, eyes lingering, groaning out loud as she laughs at you. But it’s also her in faded old t-shirts, holding the hem up to expose her stomach. Body angled to the side in girlish sundresses. Hair pulled up, showing off her neck, her gorgeously sharp collarbone - in makeup or out of it, stare intensely focused and sultry.

“That’s hot,” you comment. “Self-obsessed as fuck, but hot.”

Karina smiles - her tiny private-joke smile - and doesn’t say anything at all.

There’s one video in particular that catches your eye. It’s recent, relatively - the date reads late December, last year. Less than a month ago. Christmastime. You click on it, curious.

Karina’s immediately recognizable in it, black hair winding past her shoulders, drowning in a large black sweatshirt. She’s smiling, but it looks sort of tense and tired - bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a while. She’s got both hands balled up into fists, held close and protective to her chest; her sharp chin rests on her pale knuckles. There’s a tiny smear of red across her mouth, lower lip bitten bloody.

“You just got here,” she says. She’s looking at something behind the camera. “The first thing you wanna do is hear me sing?” She laughs once, scratchy and hoarse. “Why are you even filming this?”

The answering strum of guitar strings, a pretty, perfect chord. An invitation, or a demand.

“You’re kidding.” Karina’s voice is flat.

Another chord - evidently not.

“Wow,” says Karina. Her smile, out of nowhere, goes very soft at the edges. “You just do this because you know I can’t say no to you.”

“What?” you ask Karina now, laughing. “Is this - what is this? Do you - are you really going to sing?”

And then - crazily enough - she does.

“Oh,” you say out loud, adoring, and Karina turns her face into your shoulder.

Her voice in the video is breathy, sweet. Shyly unpracticed, raspy from disuse, completely and utterly gorgeous; lids slipping shut and open again, laugh leaking into her melody line in lyrics about black eyes and kisses and wanting someone who’s just so, so bad for you. But what surprises you more than anything is the look that dawns on her blurry on-screen face - irises sparkling and smile bashful, hiding her mouth behind the sleeve of her sweatshirt, curled up with her knees to her chest. You see now that she’s wearing pajama pants, fuzzy and patterned with snowflakes.

She looks radiantly pretty. She looks vulnerable. And not even in a sweaty, satiated, filthy post-fuck kind of way - actually, genuinely vulnerable. Soft and wide-eyed and tender.

Suddenly, you just can’t tear your gaze away.

“Stop.”

The song’s over. On-screen Karina’s fully grinning now. Porcelain-fragile, but undeniably happy, too.

“I hate you,” she says. “Baby, I really do.”

“You love me,” says the person behind the camera. “You’ll love me for the rest of your life and you know it.”

And in the video - in vivid, fluid motion - Karina laughs.

Whole-hearted, lovely. Familiar. For a moment, you swear she’s still that girl sitting in the backseat of a car with her prom queen tiara on, giggling free and uninhibited, unhurt, untouched. A month ago - less than that, even - looking like she’s coming back to life.

That’s where the clip ends.

It doesn’t change anything, if you actually think about it. It’s just another version of reality. A Karina from a whole other universe, laughing like a child, and so, so far away from whoever she is now.

(Back between the lines of your script-

The stranger and the girl drink to get drunk and that’s about it. She reads the label of his wine; he makes fun of her for being a snob. She doesn’t really drink, she says at first, but he laughs like this is a challenge, and pours her a glass anyway. She flushes pink and fidgets around. She seems to shed hair like a cat and he thinks this is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen, picking up thin black strands off of the arm of his couch, teasing her about girls and how they really like to leave their mark, huh?

Leave their mark, she repeats. There’s some trick of the lens here, some sort of strategic camera work - he’s in the forefront and she’s in the background, and she looks so much smaller than him. Why do you say that?

He still had his ex-girlfriend’s perfume in his cabinet. He probably still has some of her clothes in his closet. Not out of any particular emotional attachment, but sometimes this is just the way things are: when you spend years intertwining your whole existence with someone else’s, it’s hard to rid yourself of that connection. You’ve grown into each other’s spaces, tangling limbs and heart lines, putting down roots. It’s gonna take a little force to get them out.

They’re just so much, he says, gesticulating with his hands. And they affect everything in your life, like a fucking infection. And then it doesn’t work out, and you - he makes a wide, sweeping motion here, attempting to encompass the wreckage. You have to fix everything they broke. Purge them from your system and all that. It’s so fucked up.

It’s like this, he means to say - you love someone and then they leave you behind and you’re left staring at the blown-up decimated crater that used to be your life together. You love someone and they don’t love you back and all you have now is the debris.

They’re both drunk. There should be music here and there isn’t. It’s only eerie, too-still silence, suffocating the both of them with every passing second.

Well, she says, laughing, and takes another sip. You and I can agree on that, at least.)

It happens like this:

There’s a monologue you want to write.

You tell Karina this after you’re finally fucking her again, when she’s balanced on the edge of your glass coffee table with her legs spread and your mouth slick with her cum. Well - not after, technically. She’s between orgasms and you have your thumb on her clit, tracking the expression on her face, the split-second moment where she comes apart. It’s then when you realize so badly that you want to write some great speech for your heroine - something about the sweat beading on Karina’s midriff and her tits that you can’t stop touching and the jerky movements of her hips, trying to get your tongue back on her clit, panting and delightfully desperate. Something about desire.

“Desire,” repeats Karina, voice halfway into a raspy, worked-up moan.

“Yeah.” You’ve replaced your mouth with your fingers, fucking up into the obscene tight heat of her cunt. She’s trembling, dripping everywhere; she’s the very picture of what it means to want, probably. “But I just can’t figure it out.”

Karina laughs roughly, and then she cums.

“Is that funny?” you ask her, after, when you’re wiping your wet mouth with your wrist and she’s sucking on your glistening fingers, licking the taste of her own cunt off your skin. Her eyes big, lips all full and pink - slutty angel on her pedestal, perched above you. “Me writing about desire?”

Karina lets your fingers free with a loud pop. She’s still clutching your hand close to her mouth, thumb dragging through the sticky gleam of her spit. “No,” she says, eyes distant. “It just reminded me of something. There’s this Anne Carson quote, about men and desire…” She shakes her head. Presses her lips once to your fingertips in a small, startlingly sweet kiss. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me more.”

There isn’t much to tell, truthfully. Except that you’ve got this love for movie lines that are just so utterly quotable - things that make their way into the pop culture consciousness. That’s the kind of work you want to be doing: creating something that has an impact, something that’ll exist long after you’re gone. Everlasting. If you had to pull for an example, you’d say-

“You ever seen Closer?”

“Yeah.” Karina drops your elbow into her lap. “Oh, I get it. He tastes like you but sweeter. Lying’s the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - et cetera.” She hums the melody line. “So you want an early 2000s pop-punk band to make a song about your movie? Ambitious.”

“More or less,” you say as she shimmies her shirt back down, hem falling back over her midriff. “But like I said, I’m kind of stuck.”

Karina rolls her neck. Her hair is everywhere, sweet-smelling; snapped-off strands decorate your table, looking like cracks in the glass.

“Any suggestions?” you ask, thumb skimming along the pale bruised inside of her thigh.

She smiles, mischievous. “Maybe.”

That’s how you both end up curled on your couch together with your laptop in front of you, Karina’s eyes glued to the movie playing on the screen, watching as the four main characters fuck and flirt and cheat on each other and scream at the top of their lungs. Melodramatic dialogue. How do you feel about him using your life? You’re lying; I’ve been you. This will hurt, which Karina laughs at - as if announcing the pain will make it better, playacting at exoneration.

It’s also - predictably - how you end up fucking again. You barely make it an hour in, and then-

“Hey.” Karina’s breath tickles your ear. She’s already seconds from climbing in your lap already; her thigh is hooked over yours, bare and inviting. “Are you inspired?”

You’re swallowing back a grin. “Sure.”

“Oh. Great.” She’s no actress herself, clearly. She couldn’t be subtle if she tried. “Do you wanna be more inspired?”

And - whatever. It’s a movie about sex. If anything, at least you’re sticking to the theme.

The dialogue plays in the background as Karina rocks her hips down on your lap - you can feel how wet she is again, like she never stops wanting to be fucked. You’re telling her something about how she’s the most insatiable girl you’ve ever met; the sound of the film saturates the room, setting the tone like it knows its purpose. How? How does it work? How do you do this to someone? This big, infidelity-ridden confrontation. Did you phone her? Beg her to come back? Asking him why he falls for another girl, getting this ridiculous answer - it’s because she doesn’t need me.

“Huh.” You smile into the curve of Karina’s neck, already palming her ass. “That one’s funny.”

“Is it funny?” Karina’s sharp jaw brushes against your cheekbone. Her eyes are so dark, shadowed by her long lashes. “I think it’s pretty realistic. People don’t like needy girls. It’s a burden to be loved so hard.” Her tongue darts across her teeth; her smile’s somewhat caustic. “Too much to handle, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” This strikes you as fairly fucking ridiculous, too. “What men have you met who don’t like needy girls?”

Karina just laughs and leans in for another kiss.

It’s easy to let the rest of the film float away in the background, the lines coming disjointed, unconnected. A spoken-word soundtrack, tone perfuming the air: the angst and pain and eroticism seeping into your clothing. Once in a while you’ll pull back from kissing Karina’s neck or tits or mouth and see a thoughtful little quirk to her mouth. Like she’s genuinely listening, even as you’re taking off her shirt, slipping a hand back between her legs. Where will you go? Disappear. I can’t still see you - if I see you, I’ll never leave you. I amuse you, but I bore you.

“I bet you’ve never felt that,” you say, half into the silk of her hair.

Karina pauses. Her shirt’s on the floor; she’s gloriously naked on top of you. “Felt what?”

“I amuse you, but I bore you,” you recite. You already sound sort of fuck-drunk, far gone. “You��re the farthest thing from boring.”

Back in the movie, the female lead sobs into her fists. Karina studies you, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck. You try to imagine it - her as one of those heartsick heroines, crying herself to pieces, begging a man not to leave her - but you draw an utter blank. Some people just aren’t breakable in that way.

“You’d be surprised,” Karina says, after a moment. “People get bored of me all the time.”

“Oh, please.” Even when she’s the one top of you, you can’t help feeling so completely in control. It’s gotta be the look in her eyes, dying to be obedient. “I bet you have lots of ways of keeping guys interested in you.” You smack her ass hard just to make a mark. “I bet you let them fuck you however they want.”

“Exactly,” Karina agrees, without missing a beat. She moves in close until your noses bump together. Lets her voice go all smoky and suggestive. “Wherever they want, too.”

You open your mouth - probably about to say something very rude about what a dirty whore she is and how you should’ve realized it the second you saw her; I knew it, I know you - but then your hands slip lower and Karina presses her lips to yours and licks into your mouth, over your teeth, making you swallow your words. Filling you up until there’s nothing but her and the movie, playing on.

I think I’ll be happier with her.

You won’t. You’ll miss me. No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn’t love enough?

“Romantic, right?” murmurs Karina, sweet against your tongue.

“Shut up,” you say, and grab her by the hair, tugging her off your lap as you stand. “Bedroom. Now.”

Later, you’ll take the time to consider the different ways filmmakers illustrate a power dynamic - it’s playing on your laptop screen right now. The heroine’s sitting on the arm of the couch, clutching desperately at the hero’s jacket. Gorgeously emotional and pleading for another chance, her tiny chin tilted up, eyes so large and watery. Made fragile and fearful by everyone: the protagonist, the narrative, the director, the audience beyond. By herself, even. It’s a stylistic choice - she wants to look that pathetic.

And you-

Well, you’ve got Karina’s long hair wrapped up in your fist, tits bouncing as she stumbles to her feet, ankle knocking hard and horribly loud against the leg of your table. Cute little ass all red from your hand. Thighs shimmering from how drenched she is, cunt dripping from how you’ve treated her. She hasn’t managed to work her mouth into a trademark smirk fast enough: when she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes are abyss-dark and bottomless, crease between her brows, lips parted in pained surprise.

The definition of pathetic, too - but that’s exactly the point. She’s just so much more fuckable like that.

“Ouch,” you say, touching her hurt ankle with the side of your foot.

“It’s fine.” Karina’s skin feels clammy and cold. Her smirk’s intact now, camera-ready. “I’ve been through worse.”

Her ankle throbs under the pressure of your touch; you still haven’t let up on her hair. You’ll go through worse, too, you think of telling her: a sly comment about how rough you’re about to fuck her, what vicious marks you’re about to leave. How you’re gonna hurt her exactly like she asked you to.

You don’t say a thing.

She must already know all of that, anyway.

So, Karina’s not breakable like the helpless, weepy, soft-hearted girls in the movies - but that’s alright. She’s breakable in much more enticing ways.

Case in point:

“Oh, get real, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

Well, breaking someone down doesn’t really get better than this.

It’s all a scene of your own making, a perfect pre-arrangement. You on your bed, Karina limp and bent belly-down over your lap - you in control and Karina as the most impressive toy you’ve ever gotten your hands on, creamy ass and needy cunt and skin that turns bruises to artwork. You’re goading her and failing - trying to get her to just admit to what she is, what a filthy slut, what a nasty eager fuckdoll - but it’s hard to get a response when even breathing seems to be a chore for her right now. Every noise out of her mouth is nothing but a gasping, choked-out whimper. Her face is buried in her forearm, hidden. And through the shine of lube dribbling down your hand and her ass and into the sticky wetness of her cunt, you’ve got two fingers stretching out her little asshole - and you’re just getting started.

“I know you fucking need this.” Your other hand slides up her back, slips to tangle in her hair. “You’re just too good at it.” You pull hard, wrenching her head from the crook of her elbow. “Too good at being an obedient fucking whore for me, huh?”

Karina’s whole body stiffens when you fuck your fingers deeper, as if tugged taut on a string: the flex of her feet in the air, shoulder blades straining, neck craned back almost painfully. You pull harder. It’s a buzz at the base of your skull, live-wire thrilling: the knowledge that you can yank her into whatever position you want - fuck her anywhere, work her ass open with your cock, fill her up with cum - and she’s just going to have to take it. Like she’s this pliant, powerless thing. Like she’s yours.

Your self-satisfaction seeps right into your voice. “Answer me.”

You hear Karina gulp down a breath. “I,” Karina mumbles, but she can’t do anything but babble. “I - fuck-” All teeth-clenching nonsense; she shoots a baleful glance over her shoulder, desperation clawing its way into every word. “Please-”

Your fingers pause. “You want more?”

Her cheeks are splotchy and pink; you swear there are tears wobbling in those big dark eyes. The heavy arousal in your stomach turns to violent hunger, as though your mouth could start watering at any second. You can’t help it. The thought of seeing her cry is fucking exhilirating. “You - oh-”

“Answer me. You want my cock?” You’re waiting for the breaking point. “You want me to really fuck your ass?”

“Fuck-”

But that’s not a proper reply and Karina knows it, so she doesn’t protest when you pull your glistening fingers out of her and smack your palm hard across her ass. Once, then twice, and then you just don’t stop. She yelps like a hurt animal - trembles uncontrollably, her thighs and her shoulders and her quivering bottom lip - and makes a sound in the back of her throat that might be a sob, but she still lets you hit her: gives into the harsh crack of skin on skin, over and over again. Listens as you tell her that she deserves this, that she wanted this, that you’re making her into a good girl and this is what good girls get when they’re too cock-hungry to follow orders or answer a fucking question, you know that - you know I’m this rough for a reason. It should hurt. It’s so much more fun that way.

“I’ve been too fucking nice to you,” you mutter, teeth gritted in an effort to hide your grin - as if you even need to. It’s obvious how much you enjoy this. It’s the point. “That’s the problem with girls like you - you never learned your fucking place, huh? Never really been punished for anything?”

Karina mumbles out something unintelligible, slurring from her drooling mouth to the sheets.

“Yeah.” Your hand comes down again - she flinches just before her body goes slack. “That’s what I thought.”

And after you’ve spanked her so hard that her fair skin is ravaged and raised with goosebumps along the slope of her back - her whole body in revolt - you finally, finally stop.

Karina doesn’t budge except to breathe, and even that releases shallow, unsteady. You read it all in the shaky lift and fall of her thin shoulders, her hands in white-knuckled fists, her face pressed to your sheets and hidden - her hair coats everything, all ink, all words written but left unsaid. She shivers beneath your fingers. Her cunt’s dripping all over your lap. She’s a masterpiece. She’s a wreck.

You’re filled up with thick, swollen pride. “Karina.”

Karina. Your own personal creation, transformed under your touch. Might as well have your name carved into her, too. A brand right across her back, slicing through tissue, scarring to seal her fate - this is who you fucking belong to.

“Poor baby.” You follow the sharp ridges of her spine, tracking notches, keeping a tally: counting how many times you’ll hit her, how many days she’ll stay in your bed. How many movies she’ll let you make out of her, being your brilliant muse for decades. “It’s painful when you don’t listen to me, huh?”

But then - inexplicably - you think of her bruising ankle. Her twist of a smirk, detached and humorless. I’ve been through worse.

You’re abruptly glad you can’t see the look on her face.

“Come on, sweet girl.” You dig the heel of your palm into her lower back, half a warning. “Pull it together.”

Between the strands of glossy hair tumbling over Karina’s skin and your sheets, you spot a reddish mark on the back of her neck. Like the impression of a thumbprint, small and round. Blurry enough in the dim light that your brain starts conjuring up strange theories; an old wound, maybe. A birthmark or a burn, a childhood injury.

You graze her shoulder blades with your fingertips, exploratory. She feels so small draped over you like this, a tiny wet wisp of a girl. A doll.

She still hasn’t moved.

“Karina.”

Nothing.

“Karina,” you say again, suddenly uneasy. Your hand stops. “Are you-”

For a few terrible seconds, you can’t even hear her breathing.

But then Karina shifts. Slow, sensual, deliberate. Pushing herself up off your lap, arching her back, the slick pucker of her asshole obscene from where you fucked it open with your fingers. Her bruised knees dig into your mattress as she straightens up, and her gorgeous pale face seems to glow in the midday light - heavy dark eyes, bitten-pink mouth, black hair curtaining her cheeks like a frame to a portrait.

“You,” you start to say, feeling suddenly like you’re looking at her for the first time.

“I’m really sorry,” Karina murmurs.

She doesn’t look close to tears at all. She’s so unfazed, as if having her ass spanked punishingly raw is something that happens to a girl like her on the daily. A run-of-the-mill occurrence - a consequence of having a body like that, made to be brutalized. She’s already reaching towards the nightstand for the lube.

“I just wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight,” Karina tells you, with erotic-film certainty - reciting all the lines that’ll make her seem the most insatiably slutty. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her lips form a pout; she leans down to press them to the tip of your cock, all sweet and demure, like she thinks she needs to convince you. Eyes flicking up at you through her thick lashes, molten-hot. “I should’ve listened.” It’s only a breath, warm and torturous. “I deserved that, I know.”

Your hand winds tight in her hair. You want to force your cock down her pretty throat, make her gag and choke over her simpering apologies, spitting up your cum until it trickles down her chin, her tits, her tummy. Both a game and a power play: prove how sorry you are.

Karina pulls back before you can, and holds up the lube.

“Babe,” she says, the term of endearment almost a singsong - a lilting reminder. “I thought you wanted to really fuck me now.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tits heave as she moves, crawling closer, offering herself up. “And I always get what I want, right?”

You feel drunk with power. You forget that this isn’t supposed to be about power. You watch as Karina coats her palm with lube and pumps your cock, her fingers slick and hot, her veins starkly blue at her delicate wrists. Expression delighted at how hard you are, pink little tongue poking out between her teeth - seduction down to an art form, meticulously calculated.

“With me?” Her smile burns. “Obviously.”

You pull her in by the neck to kiss the smirk off her mouth.

It’s interesting. There’s this other thing regular critics and moviegoers have been saying about films these days: sex scenes need to have a purpose. Some sort of coherent motivation. Strip your lead actress down to nothing and get her keening and moaning and you’ve got to explain it away somehow. It forwards the plot, you could insist, pitching it to producers and directors. It does something for the character dynamics. It’ll draw in just the right audience, the ones dying to see their favorite celebrity debauched and getting dirty on-screen - they’ll see it over and over just to get a taste. Isn’t that enough? To satisfy the masses? Isn’t that why we’re all here?

Because otherwise all people are staring at is a play at pornography: useless half-convincing make-believe. The heroine can writhe and whine and arch her back all she wants. Everyone knows she doesn’t feel anything.

“Tell me the truth.”

Oh, if you two were a movie - you don’t know how anyone could justify a sex scene quite like this.

It doesn’t matter what artsy angle you take. It all comes down to the same unforgivable details: Karina face-down ass-up on your bed, the perfect bowed curve of her spine, the depraved wide stretch of her asshole around your cock - the sweat shining along her shoulder blades, the hard smack of your palm against the red raw skin of her ass, your other hand at the crown of her skull with your fingers wrapped entirely in her tangled hair - her cunt fucking ruining your sheets, wet all the way down her thighs, each brutal shift of your hips sending her little body into full-blown shudders-

“Tell me that you fucking love it.” Your hand slips lower until you’ve got her pinned down by the back of the neck, fingers pushing down: a grip she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to. “Whoring out your slutty little ass like this for a stranger. Getting on your hands and knees for me just because you’re so fucking needy for cock, baby - don’t even try to deny it, you’re so wet, nasty fucking girl-”

You just can’t stop yourself. It’s so easy. She really is so fucking pathetic. Too fragile to get free - too easily manipulated and manhandled. Trembling and drenched and giving way as you make room inside her, forcing space. She’s just so tight - it’s godless, how you make your cock fit in her lube-slicked asshole, how she moans like a bona fide bitch in heat over it: needing faster, needing harder, needing more. Cheek pink and pressed hard to your mattress, sharp nails digging into the sheets rough enough to tear through the fabric. Giving herself up to be fucked cruelly and stupid and senseless.

Like she’s a real-

“Natural fucking cockslut, huh?”

Look, seriously - you can’t be held accountable for the things you say to her here.

Because when you say shit like you’d just let me do anything - like you’d let me fucking tie you up and keep you here forever, be an eager fucking cumdump for me whenever I want you, I know it, I know you - that’s just the moment talking. The circumstances. The pretty arch of her back and the drooling wetness of her cunt and the indecent tightness of her ass, conspiring to make you lose your mind mid-fuck - that’s the whole reason you even tell her any of it. You think you’re good for anything else? Right at her ear, your body covering hers, your cock buried deep. You’re not. Just made to get this slutty ass fucked open, and your mouth, and your cunt - this is all anyone’s ever gonna want from you and you know it - better get used to it now, baby. This is all you got. This is all you are.

It’s Karina’s fault, really. She just takes it - all of it. She doesn’t even try to fight it.

“But that’s okay,” you murmur, as she gasps and squirms and cries out like you’re killing her. “I’m still gonna make you cum.”

And with your cock filling her ass and your hand between her legs, slapping hard at her sopping cunt until she can’t do anything but collapse - shaking, shattered - her whimpers fucked-out and drool-soaked and bleeding into one big nonsensical mess, everything about her used and ruined-

“You’re mine,” you tell her, laughing as she falls apart. “You get that? You’re mine.”

-then, you do.

When it’s all over, Karina rolls over to face the wall, breathing hard. She’s slick everywhere, sweat and saliva and lube, your creamy cum dripping out of her well-fucked asshole and trickling down her thigh. You trace her lower back and grin at the way her skin seems to give into you, turning pink with a press of your fingertips. You’ve come to realize you adore her like this, the fugue state after you fuck her: utterly dead to the world.

Like she could become a permanent fixture in your bed. Too tired to move. Too tired to ever leave.

“Mine,” you say again, softer.

Karina doesn’t argue.

It’s basically all the confirmation you need.

So, really, if you two were a movie-

It goes like this: life can imitate art, too. It happens all the time. The line between fiction and reality blurs together until it’s indistinguishable - until you can’t tell where the fantasy ends, or if it ever did at all.

(It goes like this: the heroine smiles sleepily and tells the hero he’s the best she’s ever had. You’ve seen this film before. The movie stars with their fake on-screen fucks might not feel a damn thing, but at least it’s still fun to pretend.)

Also, the mark you saw on the back of her neck isn’t actually what you thought it was.

“It’s a tattoo,” you realize out loud, drowsily awed, brushing her hair away so you can get a better look. You’re both tuckered out, an inevitability when you fuck like you do; you’re seconds from dozing off. Karina’s looking away from you, on her side to escape the soreness of her ass, sheets loose across her chest. She lets you touch her wherever. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before.”

“You don’t know me,” mumbles Karina, half into your pillow. “It’s not your job to notice anything about me.”

The tattoo’s crimson-red, all delicate linework. It really does look like it hurts: like someone painstakingly cut the shape into her skin. It’s of a heart, rendered in anatomical detail - valves and ventricles and arteries. It’s beautiful, you realize belatedly. Bright instead of faded, and obviously cared for. Lovely.

The only permanent stain on her perfect body. You press your thumb against the ink, fascinated.

“What does it mean?” you ask, but Karina’s already fallen asleep.

(In your script, the girl and the stranger watch some gory crime show, except they don’t pay very close attention and he tugs her into his lap and makes her ride his thigh. The episode they’ve got on is about a serial killer who murders so-called sinners - liars, adulterers, the like. Slaughters them like sacrifices, cutting their throats with vicious efficiency. Fake blood drenches the screen with every crime scene: a form of fucked-up baptism, a psuedo-religious cleansing.

The girl’s putting on an equally decent show on top of the stranger: head thrown back, eyelids fluttering, high-pitched little moans. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and keeps watching the TV.

Hey, he says, a murmur against her skin, a close-up on his mouth. You’re a sinner, right?

She’s got her hands on his shoulders, hips rolling. Sure am.

How do you think this guy would kill you?

He thinks this’ll shock her, but she doesn’t even pause. Like he kills all the rest, she says. Like an animal.

I think he’d be more careful with you, the stranger muses. You’re too gorgeous. He’d have to use, like - a scalpel, or something. Something cleaner. Something that’d keep you intact.

It’s no use. Nothing he says seems to scare her. Her eyes are far-off, almost glazed in recollection. Like she’s thought about it too - her own untimely end. Her own vivisection, skin flayed and organs visible, viscera and bone. There, hold the shot: now the audience can consider it with her, ponder all the ways she could be torn apart, all the repulsive things they could do with her desiccated body. All the ways flesh can warp under a human touch: the blue-black yellow-green purpling of bruises, a whole palette on one tiny girl. There’s value in that, isn’t there? There’s something intimately, incomparably beautiful in suffering. There’s art.

Isn’t that why everyone’s watching?

I get it, the girl says, still soaking his thigh, smiling as if it’s an inside joke between them. You want me dead. That’s been obvious since the moment you met me.

I don’t want you dead, he says, and grabs her by the jaw. I just want to fuck you.

Okay, she says, uncaring, like there’s barely a difference. Fine. Whatever you want.

They don’t turn the TV off. They let the characters scream and bleed out in the background; he fucks her like she’s got a death wish. It’s funny - he expects her to get louder the harder he fucks her, ruthlessly working over the tight clench of her cunt - but she keeps getting less and less responsive, as if he’s pushing her little body into some sort of trance: expression vacant and blank, body limp and lifeless, mouth open and speechless. It makes him angry. Give me something, he’s saying, frustrated, clawing at her hair: baby, it’s not fair, it’s no fun like this. The on-screen shrieks aren’t enough - he wants it from her. Actually, he keeps saying he needs it - as if fulfilling desire is on the same level as food or air, as if he’ll drop dead in seconds if he doesn’t get her sobbing. He gets his overlarge hands on her face and starts contorting it, pushing her mouth open, her eyes wider, his fingers down her throat until she spits and gags and chokes. Oh, the audience will love this one: it’s reminiscent of those filthy exploitation films with their cult followings, so cleverly referential. Look at her pathetic and pinned down. Look at her helpless and struggling. Think of your favorite on-screen murder scenes, and then think of this.

Anything I want, the stranger reminds her, yanking back her hair as she drools down his wrist. You asked for this, didn’t you? You said anything I want.

Except now the girl can’t say anything at all.

This moment will start rumors, invite horrified scandal the same way some purposefully marketed horror movies are passed off as snuff films - that really went down, they really died like that. This scene’ll get a similar response. Did he actually fuck her? Did he actually hurt her? Did everyone - the writer, the director, the crew, the captive audience - actually just stand by and let that happen?

Sure. Or she might just be a really, really good actress.

There. The stranger’s murmuring to her now, watching her manufactured expression, watching the tears fill her eyes. There you go. There’s my girl. And she is his, she really is - transformed into something all beautiful and new under his clumsy fingertips, molded right into art. The camera will zoom in close on her gorgeous, cadaverous face, a perverse little gift for the audience: here, have this, take a look. She’s all yours now.

There’s something to be said here about the manmade link between sex and violence - inescapable, brutal, primeval; bodies in all shades of red - but he forgets it the second he touches her, and she’s being fucked too hard to remember.

Maybe they’ll get to it next time.)

AND WE'RE BACK!!!!!!!!!!! <33333

all my luv ever to @capslocked @worldsover @passingnotions @braaan for beta reading my dumbass shenanigans and also for being the best ever I LOVE U!!!!!! AND ANYONE WHO IS READING THIS I LOVE YALL TOO.................. PART 2 COMING SOON!!!!!!!!!!!

#kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #idol x reader #idol x male reader #reader insert #karina smut #karina fanfic #aespa karina smut

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harrysfolklore · 2 months

Note

hi bestie,, idk if u take requests buttt have u seen kieran culkin speech after he won his emmy & then him asking his wife for another baby on stage 😁🤭🤭 idk i thought that would a cute h blurb

that kieran speech was SO CUTE i just had to take this request !!! happy one year of grammy winner Harry for those who celebrate! i hope you like this as much as I do

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The night had been one for the books.

Harry became a Grammy winner for the second time within the first 30 minutes of the ceremony, getting the award for Best Pop Vocal Album, and your heart bursted with joy and pride and you watched him collect it.

He also delivered an amazing performance even though he had a stage malfunction that was out of his control, and after a few minutes of pep talk backstage, you convinced him that he should be proud of what he did no matter what.

Nights like tonight made you look back at your journey with Harry, from getting frustrated each year when the Grammys refused to give One Direction a nomination, to consoling him when his debut single Sign of the Times got overlooked and celebrating when they finally ave him his long overdue nomination for Fine Line. And now, being one of the most nominated artists of the night and a winner already.

Harry was not an artist that let awards or numbers define his career at all, but you knew that deep down he appreciated getting a nod and recognition for the hard work he puts into his music.

"What's on your mind, honey?" Harry asked and he noticed that you had been quiet for a few minutes, the show was on a commercial break so you could talk freely.

"Just thinking about how am I getting a picture with Beyoncé before the night ends," you joked, making him laugh along, "I'm also thinking about the bub, do you think she's okay?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at the mention of your daughter. Little baby Styles had been welcomed into the world a year and a half ago, looking like an exact carbon copy of Harry with curls, dimples and charming green eyes.

It's safe to say that she became Harry's entire world from the moment he saw her for the first time.

"I bet she's fast asleep by now after snuggling with mum for hours," you smiled at the thought, "You know she's obsessed with mum."

"She just loves her nana," you almost cooed, "And her Grammy winner daddy, even tho she doesn't have any idea what that means."

"You know," Harry began, and by the look on his face you knew he was up to no good, "She could become obsessed with her bay brother or sister too, if we decided to give her one."

The smirk on Harry's face after his statement was almost devilish, making you look him with wide eyes and a grin on your own.

"Are you asking me for another baby in the middle of the Grammys?" Harry shrugged, the smirk not leaving his face, "You're a menace. But, maybe if you win, I'll think about it."

Before Harry could reply, the lights dimmed signaling that commercial break was over and it was time for more awards, more specifically, the most important award of the night: Album of the Year.

Trevor Noah, the host, talked about the importance and meaning of the award, the fans the production had invited to support the nominees stood beside him in a line.

You could barely focus on what was being said because your eyes were fixed on Harry's hand gripping yours tightly, and you felt like throwing up from nerves if you looked at the stage.

And the Grammy goes to…” Trevor spoke into the mic, making a dramatic pause that felt way too long and made you finally look up no the stage, noticing that he was standing in front of Reina, Harry's fan.

And that was the moment you knew, the Album of the Year was Harry's House.

“It’s you!” both you ans Jeff whisper-yelled in unison, looking at each other with shocked faces and making Harry give you a confused look.

“What do you-” and before he could even finish his sentence his name was being called out and the trumpets from Music for a Sushi Restaurant filled the place.

Harry immediately covered his face in disbelief, shaking his head and taking in in the moment. You couldn't help but stand up and jump in your place, adrenaline and excitement, but mostly pride, running through your veins.

"My love, you won! Harry's House won!" you said into his ear when he finally wrapped his arms around you, pecking the side of yiur head repeatedly before kissing your lips quickly.

"I love you," was all he said before getting rushed into the stage along with his collaborators and friends.

"Shit!" was the first thing that came out of his mouth once he had his Grammy in hand, making everyone laugh, “I mean,shit! I’ve been so, so inspired by every artist in this category with me. At a lot of different times in my life I listen to everyone in this category when I’m alone,” he took a breath,"I think on nights like tonight, it’s obviously so important for us to remember that there is no such thing as best in music. I don’t think any of us sit in the studio thinking, making decisions based on what is gonna get us one of these.”

You stood with your hands clutched to your chest, your eyes filled with happy tears and nothing but love and admiration for him.

"I'd like to thank my mom and my sister for being my biggest supporters and giving me a great childhood, I would be nowhere without you," he paused to look directly at you from the stage, his eyes immediately watering again, "And of course my beautiful wife, YN. Thank you for sharing your beautiful life with me and giving me an amazing daughter who is the reason I do what I do everyday,"

You were unaware of the camera focusing on your and catching the moment you mouthed an 'I love you' to him from your place.

"I love you both so much, you mean the world to me. And YN," he paused, the devilish look from earlier making his way to his face again, along with a teasing raised eyebrow that told you that he was about to do something major, "I want another one."

The entire arena erupted into laughs and cheers, Jeff clapped and whistled from beside you and you couldn't help but cover your face in shock and embarrassment, astonished by Harry's anctics.

"You said, maybe if I won, and I did!" the crowd laughed even more, "I love you, so much. Thank you for this, I'll never forget it."

Harry got off the stage and you met him backstage to congratulate him properly, after a final performance the night came to an end and everyone headed outside the arena to celebrate.

"Do you feel like partying tonight? The label is throwing a celebration but if you feel tired we can skip it," Harry said as you both sat on the back of his Range Rover.

"Honestly, I just want to go home, kiss our baby goodnight and celebrate with my Grammy winner husband in private," you smiled at him teasingly, "Maybe get started on that second baby making."

The smile that appeared on Harry's face after hearing your words was bigger than the one from winning a Grammy.

"Home it is, then."

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fake instagram #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles headcanon #harry styles fic #harry styles au #harry styles fake social media #harry styles story #harrysfolklore #harry styles masterlist #harry styles fic rec #harry styles grammy #1k

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augustinewrites · 8 months

Text

once shoko opens her door, you offer her a half-hearted smile and hold up your bottle of wine. if there’s one person you can count on to help drink your feelings away, it’s—

“i actually can’t tonight,” she sighs. “i have an exam tomorrow and i already had a few drinks so…”

“wait, shoko—” you catch the edge of the door, sighing as you admit, “i think satoru is cheating on me.”

she pauses for a second, as if checking to see if you’re serious.

then, “you open that up. i’ll get the glasses.”

“thanks,” you grin, following her inside.

“do you need anything else?” she calls from the kitchen. “a hug? baseball bat? an alibi?”

“no need for glasses, and we don’t need the other stuff…yet,” you grimace, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig, kicking the door shut behind you. “and i don’t know for sure that he’s cheating, but he’s just been so weird lately.”

“weird how?” your friend asks, pushing aside the textbooks she has open on the couch cushions before gesturing for the bottle. “it’s gojo, you’ve gotta be more specific.”

you hand her the tequila, shaking your head. “it was small things at first. showing up late for dates or just cancelling them. not telling me where he’s been all day. then last night i saw this text on his phone…”

shoko’s brows raise. “you were looking at his messages?”

“no!” you exclaim. then, when your best friend sends you a look, “okay, i didn’t mean to! he left his phone on the nightstand while he was in the shower and i looked at it when it buzzed with a text from someone named megumi.”

“oh,” shoko realizes, eyes widening. “that’s a girl’s name.”

you both sit in silence for a moment, passing the bottle back and forth. your phone buzzes a few times in your pocket - undoubtedly satoru asking why you’ve been avoiding him all day - but you ignore it.

“let’s confront him,” shoko proposes once you’re halfway through the bottle. “find out once and for all.”

“okay!” by now, you’re buzzed enough to think this is a brilliant idea, standing on unsteady legs as shoko calls for a cab.

_____

“hey,” your boyfriend smiles weakly once he opens the door. “wait, what’s shoko doing—”

“where is she?” she asks, pushing past the both of you to walk into his apartment. she begins flipping up couch cushions and checking behind curtains.

“what’s going on?” satoru asks, letting you push him inside. he looks down at you, concern clouding his expression. “what’s she talking about?”

you’re not sure if it’s liquid courage or frustration that causes you to blurt, “are you cheating on me?”

“what? of course not—”

“then who’s megumi?”

“he is toji’s six year son!”

your eyes widen. shoko freezes, halfway through opening a cabinet.

toji…had a son? “so he’s a— a—”

“he’s a zen’in,” your boyfriend confirms. it’s as if all the air leaves your lungs when he says that, catching in your throat. “his mom passed, and after toji…i couldn’t just leave him alone. apparently toji made some deal to sell the kid to the zen’in clan, and i didn’t want…so i filed for guardianship.”

“guardianship,” you echo. “you’re planning to raise the kid on your own?

“his sister too.”

“i’m gonna go get a cab home. let you two talk,” shoko laughs nervously, speeding out the door.

satoru walks over to the couch once she’s gone, sitting the edge and hiding his face in his hands. “i’d get it, you know.”

“get what?” you ask, sitting next to him.

“you didn’t sign up for this,” he sighs. “taking in two kids— it’s a lot. but i couldn’t do nothing. he’s going to need someone to help him. teach him. care about him. so he doesn’t end up like…”

he doesn’t finish his sentence. you don’t make him. even after a few years, the heartache of losing your friend causes a dull ache in your chest.

though…he’s right that you didn’t sign up for any of this. kids were the furthest thing from your mind at this stage of your life, not to mention this stage of your relationship.

but if satoru, who is barely an adult himself, can find it in his heart to do what you know in your mind is the right thing…

“then i guess it’ll make the next few years of our lives pretty exciting,” you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.

“our lives?” he repeats, sounding shocked. “you’re…staying?”

you draw back to meet his pensive gaze, though it melts away when you offer him a small smile. you see him in this moment.

so you cup his face in your hands, thumb softly stroking his cheek. “you didn’t think i would want to stay?”

“i hoped,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the inside of your wrist. “but i didn’t know for sure.”

“well, i’m not going anywhere,” you assure him, kissing the tip of his nose. “even if you’re a monumental pain in my ass.”

#i started this in dec 2021 omg #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #keeping up with the fushigojos

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hoshigray · 3 months

Note

idk if you’re taking in requests or thirsts but imagine giving toji a lap dance and even then he’s still the one who’s in charge and shiittt 😵‍💫

i want him so bad 😞

lol, why did I think of a stripper AU when I saw this? Also, this ask is like MONTHS old, I'm so sorry...also tysm for 4.9k guyssss, ur too kind

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Toji x stripper fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - sensual movements; lap dances + bumping and grinding - kisses (f! receiving) - clitoral stimulation - breast fondling + nipple play - biting/nibbling- pet names (angel, baby, sweetheart, sweetie) - no penetration, but things get steamy - cameos: Mei Mei, Nanami and Ino. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k

You were Toji’s favorite stripper.

You, your coworkers, and all the clients who come to enjoy the show all know this as fact.

It’s all fun and games that this is your job, and you must cater to all the other men and women who come to see you strut and work your stuff (or else your manager, Mei Mei, would have your head).

But this is something that should never be forgotten. When that raven-haired man with a scar on his lip walks into the premises, everyone has to act right: you’re off-limits because you are his girl.

Tonight was one of those Friday nights; women gather around the bar top to gather their weekend drinks – and flirt with Kento Nanami, the part-time bartender. Men under the influence howl at the topless entertainers, allowing them to motorboat and stuff cash into their underwear. And Ino, the DJ, plays the tunes that set the mood and keep the place going.

Toji walks past all of that — he’s not here for it. He strides up to the open area, where there are mini stages abided by booths, a pole for each that comes from the ceiling down. He comes to one of the stages, and a dancer stops midway through her routine to greet the man, ignoring the girls who whine from her mesmerizing dancing coming to a halt. “Toji~, it’s Friday already?”

“Yup, good to see you, Roxy,” he flashes a quick smile at the named entertainer. “They here today?”

Roxy giggles. “Knew you were going to ask me that. They should be at that back one over there at the corner…Oh! There they are.” She points, and Toji follows her finger to the promised stage and booth at the corner. He grins and gives a curt nod to Roxy before going on his way. “Enjoy the show, Toji~”

At the club corner is a booth filled with tired businessmen who come to drink. But guessing from the grins on their faces, they’re too enamored by what’s in front of them to quench their first. On the pole, twirling around the metal bar, was you. Entertaining the men with the usual routine, a few tricks, and moves to wow the mix of young and old business clients. And they gasp and roar at you, splitting your legs during a high kick.

Unfortunately, though, this was the last of their fun with you. Because after you transition from the pole, taking a client’s hand to have them aid you down the stage, something – or someone – catches your attention from the corner of your eye. You turn and smile, “Hey there, big guy.”

“Hey,” he greets you with a smirk. The guys around the booth watch, most with expressions as if their hearts dropped. Minus one, a young man who felt he should question the man standing next to him.

“Uhh, excuse me,” he says to the dark-haired, burly man. The other colleagues looked at him as if he lost his mind. “We got this table first, so go over somewhere with the other strippers and—“

He could not finish that sentence. Because Toji pulled the kid off his seat with one hand, the poor bastard squeaked at the sudden action. Piercing green eyes bore into his skull, his blood shifting to icy cold. “How ‘bout I have you go somewhere? Either in the trash or six feet under, whichever floats y’r boat.”

The scared look on the poor kid’s face didn’t change Toji’s attitude. Not even the other guys who were pleading to him to let their friend go, that he didn’t know what he was doing. He did not come here to start something, not tonight.

And for that, you were the only one who could calmly intervene, dissuading the situation by placing a hand on Toji’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Toji. I was giving these guys a little show before you came in. Now, please let him go, okay? I don’t think Mei Mei would want to deal with another broken arm situation.”

It was the safest option that you spoke to him, his little favorite. So, with a gruff scoff, Toji lets the guy go for him to land on the floor roughly. “You heard ‘em, fellas. Outta my spot.” The entrepreneurs get up and scram with no hesitation, grumbling at the younger colleague for causing such strife in the first place as they walk away somewhere, leaving you and Toji.

He watches them leave, turning to you when they’re at a respectable distance. Here is when he properly gets a good look at you. God, he could never get enough of you. You were wearing a black laced, caged mesh bra that covered your breasts, matching with lacy bottoms that shaped your hips beautifully. The bra was covered in rhinestones that shined with the club lights, which partnered with the side of your bottoms. And to complete the look, over-the-knee heeled boots that sparkled. A new favorite, Toji thinks.

“Well, now that you’re done terrorizing my guests,” you giggle and gesture to the booth seat. “Ready for me to spoil you?”

“Heh, think that’s the other way ‘round, sweetheart.” Toji chuckles as he takes off his coat and sits down. He notes you staring at his bulky arms for a quick second. You were fast, but not fast enough for him to catch you. “I’m sure y’re ready to drain my wallet.”

You walk between him and the stage behind you, bewitching him with the twinge of your lips as you bring your face closer. “Would that be a bad thing?”

Toji’s hand goes to your cheek, “A pretty lil’ angel like you? I’d let you rob every cent of me.”

The jest does its job of making you laugh before you withdraw your face from his hold. “You know the rules.”

The older man rolls his eyes but obliges, putting his hands behind his head and shifting comfortably. “I know, I know. No touchy.”

“No touchy.” You repeat, knowing he’s on the same page while you warm yourself up.

You start with the usual — he likes it. You turn and spread your legs, bending down slowly before him so he can get a perfect view of your ass and underwear. And you take your time getting up, using your hands to entice him by grazing them around your asscheeks. Next, you face him, eyes locked with his emerald ones. Taking one foot after the other, you bend again and place your hands on his thighs, rubbing them while maintaining eye contact. “How was work? Tough as usual?”

Now, while you have rules of your own, he also has things he can’t share — like the fact that his primary source of income comes from killing people. It’s why he’s always sure to clean himself up before coming here, spending his hard-earned cash to see you. But he humors you with tiny hints, “Mmm, as usual. Broken nose here, blood on knuckles there.”

You straighten up, placing a heeled foot on his right thigh. “My my, not that you got hurt, right?”

“Not a single scratch.”

You lift a brow before bringing your leg down to swiftly sit on his lap, snaking your hands up from his abdomen and chest to his strong shoulders. “You’re quite the dangerous one.”

“Sure,” He chortles smugly, “but y’re one to talk.”

You play along, forming a small “o” with your lips to display faux surprise. All the while bouncing on his lap. “Me? Dangerous?”

“Oh yeah, sweetie.” His eyes never leave your face, even when you sway to the side to measure his attention. “Y’re quite the little minx yourself.”

Your eyes narrow, inching your face closer, your noses practically touching. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Slow grinds to his groin, it makes him swallow. You close your eyes, lips drawing in with a whisper. “Is it?”

Toji closes his eyes as well, falling for your sensual spell. “Not at all…” But nothing comes of it, only a string of giggles as you remove your face from his, poking the tip of his nose with your finger to signal with awake before fully withdrawing your figure from him. He grins, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ tease.”

“I don’t see you complaining, sir.” You throw the title at him with a playful smirk, batting an eye before turning around with your back facing him. You gently sit on his lap and transition your services to that of a lap dance.

With an arched back, you roll your hips and ride on his lap, your butt rubbing on his jean-clad thighs to create heated friction. And Toji’s eyes examine your figure, from the highlighted skin of your back to the sway of your hips. The view of your butt rubbing on him gets him going, trying to fight the urge to just fuck the rules and grab your ass to grind on himself. Every rasp to his groin tests him to breathe steadily.

But then, you just had to look at him over your shoulder with that cute, complacent leer. “How ya feelin’ there, big guy? Dangerous enough for you yet?”

Yup, fuck it. Rules be damned, Toji grabs for your ass and brings it down flat on his groin. The action takes you aback – unconditionally out of the accustomed routine. Before you can question him, Toji’s scarred lips are already at your ear. “You tell me, princess. Teasin’ me like that is just askin’ for it.”

You hold back a whimper when he comes to your neck, biting your lips when his lips meet your skin. “Mmmm…whatever happened to no touchy? You could get into trouble—“

“Aww, are ya worrying f’r me?” He snickers to your ear again, listening to you gasp at the buck of his hips to your ass. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, just keep dancin’ f’r me, ‘kay? I’ll take care of you…”

Toji bites the helix of your ear, rolling his hips to hump you. With a shaky moan, you grind on him to match his cadence. You’re nervous; this is against the policy: guests are not supposed to touch the entertainers. And yet, now, with Toji’s firm hands holding onto you and him whispering to your ear, it somehow feels different — a lot more hedonistic.

You decide to play along, throwing your head back to his shoulder to rest, which gives him more access to kiss your exposed skin. His lips peck down your neck, and quivering wails seep from your lips when he mischievously nibbles on it. Too distracted to detect a hand snake down to your covered chasm.

Now would be the right time to say things are going too far. You bring a hand on top of his, a silent warning for him. But he chooses to ignore it, creeping the other hand under the hem of your top. “Relax, baby. Just focus on danicin’, yeah?”

This was so different, having a guest take the rails — no, having Toji take control of you. And you don’t dislike it; far from it, actually. If anything, it’s oddly exciting — letting the older man please you as you service him. It’s new and dangerous, especially in your workplace. But, oh my God, you don’t want it to stop.

You wrap your arms around his neck while he puts his back to the booth, using this to change into a different move. With your torso lifted and using your legs to maintain balance, you move your abdomen up and down. While you’re ghosting his groin with wave-like motions, Toji uses his fingers to play with your body. His left middle and forefinger rubs on your cover folds, roughly pressing down on where your clitoris is. A choked sob leaves puffy lips, even when his right hand is in your bra to grope your breast, his thumb swiping on your nipple to harden.

“Mmmph! Ahhaaa, Toji…”

“Yeah, just like that,” he reassures you. Another tweak to your nipple has you bite your lips with a hum. “Just like that—“

“Am I interrupting something?”

It took you mere milliseconds to recognize the new voice that enters your space, abruptly interrupting your session with purpose. You’re off of Toji just like that, hurriedly fixing yourself in the presence of your manager. “H–Hello, Mei Mei.”

“Hello there, Y/n.” She says it sweetly, but her words carry a stern connotation. The pale-blue-haired woman has her hair up in a braided ponytail while wearing a simple black split-thigh cami dress with mesh sleeves, and her gold earrings and red lipstick contrast with her pale skin. “Ah, I expected to see you here, too, Mr. Fushiguro.”

Toji greets the women, standing up at his own pace. “It is a Friday, Lady Mei.”

She smiled at the use of her business name; it was appropriate for what she was about to say. “Indeed it is. I decided to come down to check on the place and see how the life of the party was going. And all my guests seemed to be having quite a good time…Minus this one guy, who told me about the ‘scary fucker with a scar on his lip’ who lifted him like a doll and scared him and his buddies to a different table.”

Toji rubs the back of his neck, chortling with a smug grin. “Hmm, the guy must be some dick.”

“Must be...Now listen, Fushiguro, I know how much of a valuable customer you are, throwing good money at my girls — my girl.” Mei Mei walks to you and places her cold hands on your shoulders. “I’d find it hard to have you not come here anymore for not keeping your hands to yourself. On my customers and my entertainers.”

“That I understand, my Lady,” he sighs at your manager’s lecture and crosses his arms. “But you know how I roll. I just come here to see your girls—“ He stops to shift his gaze on you. “Your sweet girl.”

“And I see you care about them quite a lot, your hand up their bra and your lips on their skin.”

He shrugs it off. “I’m guilty.”

Mei Mei walks up to the older guest, her light violet eyes locked with his dark jade orbs. “Fushiguro, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my rules apply to everybody. No touching the dancers. This is a strip club, not a brothel.”

“Yes, Mei,” He grasps every word thrown at him, his eyes not leaving her feline ones. “It’s just a shame that I’m willin’ to pay whatever to have Y/n privately for one night in those lil’ VIP rooms upstairs.”

A silver brow is quirked. “Are you trying to throw more money at my face to change the rules for your own convenience?”

“I’m trying to talk business, from one loyal customer to a good businesswoman.” He says nonchalantly, pointing to you with his chin. “That is if they’re up for it.” Now, why did he have to single you out like that? Because your manager turns to you with a patient look, gauging where you stand in this situation.

It’s a tricky thing to answer: do you want to have sex with your guest that made you feel good minutes ago? This job is supposed to be an easy one, coming here to dance and swing your ass off til the morning sun for good money. Now, on the one night when things get a little too heated – with your favorite customer, mind you – you’re in a conflict. And you have to thank God you didn’t kiss him on the lips!

However, it’s not like you don’t trust Toji; it’s the opposite. Sure, he can be a cocky bastard; there’s been instances where he’s touched you, but never like tonight. And yet, you didn’t find any danger in it. You were relaxed atop of him, leaning more into his touches. So, the thought that more could come from it is new. Chilling, but thrilling.

Your manager can see the inner turmoil through your face, so she answers in your stead, “Give it some thought for tomorrow, Y/n. And you,” Mei Mei turns back to the man guilty of this predicament. “Learn to behave yourself ’til then.”

“I will, Lady Mei,” Toji sneers, grabbing for his coat to put on and taking a few bands to give to you. “And I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow, baby.”

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foxcantswim · 6 months

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FNAF Movie / / Vanessa x F!Reader [Jealousy Hurts]

(gif by me)

Mike starts to flirt with you. Vanessa definitely isn't jealous. Contents: Fluff, Angst(ish), Established Relationship Warnings: N/A WC: 2,220

"No no, like this," Mike laughed as he rolled the ball masterfully, he had been bragging about how good at skee-ball he was so you had asked him to teach you. After all, there wasn't a lot to do on the night shift so you might as well waste some time. Freddy, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy had been standing a few feet away watching the two of you play, each of them seeming curious.

You rolled another ball but it fell short again.

"Ah, I'll never get it," you groaned, already wanting to give up after failing to get a decent score for the past hour.

Mike smiled at you, stepping closer, "No. Come on. Let me show you." He grabbed another ball and showed you the angle of his arm, "It's simple. Just enough strength in the throw, not too much. And..." he released the ball and it swiftly made its way down the lane and up into one of the high score pockets, "Easy."

"You mean you make it look easy," you rolled your eyes at him and folded your arms in frustration.

He chuckled to himself before holding a ball towards you, "Come on. Let me help."

Vanessa sat in her patrol car outside the pizzeria, her fingers tapping on the wheel. She had been sitting here for almost an hour now, deciding on whether or not to go inside. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the dashboard - 02:40am. She'd usually check in on you every other night to make sure you were okay, but tonight she knew you were on shift with Mike... And yet here she was, pondering on whether or not to go in and see how you were doing. She definitely wasn't here to make sure Mike wasn't going to try anything on you... Definitely not.

Finally, she stepped out of her vehicle and slammed the door shut. She went towards the front doors and peered through the glass, she could see that the lights were on and she could hear faint music. She was about to knock but decided to try the door instead... And of course it was unlocked. Vanessa rolled her eyes in frustration, she couldn't count the amount of times she'd told you to make sure the doors were locked every night.

Upon stepping inside, she could hear muffled voices and laughter - she presumed it was from you and Mike. The stage was empty as she walked past it towards the arcade games, she could clearly see the tall animatronics at the back of the room by the skee-ball machines.

She manoeuvred her way past different games and machines, stepping over loose wires here and there making sure not to trip. She finally made it to the skee-ball machines, she patted Freddy on the arm to let him know that she was there. He stepped out of the way to let her through, however she stopped in her tracks at what she saw.

Mike was standing behind you, one of his hands slowly moving up your arm towards your wrist. Your hand soon lay in his palm, a ball was secure in your hand.

"And you just gotta..." Mike's voice was quiet as Vanessa watched him move your hand with his.

Vanessa decided to clear her voice, making herself known. Both you and Mike turned to look at her.

You dropped the ball and retracted away from Mike with a smile, "Vanessa!" you exclaimed with a smile, walking over to her, "I didn't think you were coming tonight."

Vanessa couldn't help but glare at Mike as you approached her and wrapped her up in your arms, she more than willingly returned the hug as you pressed your lips to her cheek.

"I er... I wasn't aware you two knew each other," Mike coughed awkwardly.

You had been working as an overnight security guard longer than Mike had, you met Vanessa in the first week and you two had hit it off pretty quickly - entering into a relationship only a few months after meeting. A couple of months later, another security guard was hired: Mike. You had only worked duo shifts with him a few times now but you already saw him as a close friend, it was nice to have someone to talk to on long night shifts.

"Oh! Yes. I met Vanessa a few days after I started working here," you said as you pulled away from the hug, Vanessa made sure to grab your hand with hers - she tried her hardest to not keep glaring at Mike. You squeezed her hand in response, "She's my girlfriend. Has been for a couple months now." Vanessa couldn't stop the small smile from appearing on her face.

Mike raised an eyebrow, "Ah... I'm just... surprised it never came up," he shifted on the balls of his feet awkwardly.

"To be honest I didn't even know you two met," you replied.

Vanessa nodded, "I helped him out for the first couple of days," she stepped ever so slightly closer to your side, her hand still firm in yours, "I wasn't going to come over tonight but I was... passing by so I decided to anyways." She definitely wasn't passing by, her last area of patrol was on the other side of town.

"Well, I'm glad you came," you smiled.

Vanessa smirked at you, "Oh really? You usually complain, saying something along the lines of 'I don't need you to keep me company every night, I'm a big girl'."

You rolled your eyes, "Just because I don't need you here, doesn't mean I don't want you here," you then turned your attention back towards Mike, who seemed to be uncomfortable, "I'm sure time will absolutely fly by now that there's more of us."

"What were you two up to?" Vanessa said, her mind going back to when Mike was practically wrapped around you.

"Mike over here is apparently the best skee-ball player that anyone has ever seen. So he was teaching me how to play. I'm sure I could challenge him any day now."

Mike laughed, "I'm sure you could, Y/N."

The three of you made your way towards the main stage, the animatronics walked behind you.

"What should we do to get through these last three hours, hm?" you wondered, looking around the room.

"I mean... We are at Freddy Fazbear's after all. Couldn't hurt to watch them perform a little," Vanessa suggested, nodding towards the showtime button on the wall. You looked towards the animatronics, they almost seemed excited to get up there and put on a show.

You and Vanessa were sitting at one of the party tables, listening to the music coming from the stage. Freddy, Bonnie and Chica were currently performing whilst Foxy stood by your table, he seemed to be enjoying the show.

Vanessa reached across the table to hold your hand, "Sorry for coming here unannounced, Y/N. Just wanted to see how things were going with... Mike."

You nodded, "Him and I became friends quite quickly. It is nice to have someone here when you aren't able to stop by. The animatronics are good company, but it can't hurt to have someone I can actually have a conversation with." You noticed the way Vanessa squeezed your hand ever so slightly as you spoke. You cocked your head at her before teasing, "You're still my favourite, don't worry. I'd rather have you here."

She grit her teeth, "You know, I'm happy you do have someone to keep you company when I'm not here."

A smirk appeared on your face, "Is that so?"

Before Vanessa could answer, Mike walked into the room with a couple of cans in his hands, "I managed to find a vending machine that still worked," he said, handing you a drink. Vanessa gulped hard as she saw him purposefully drag his fingers across yours as you took the drink. He simply placed the other drink on the table in front of Vanessa.

"They aren't out of date are they?" you said, trying to read the scuffed label.

With a shrug, he walked towards the front of the room to take a seat closer to the stage. Foxy followed close behind him before sprinting past him at full speed, jumpscaring him in the process. You couldn't help but laugh at Mike's reaction as he almost threw the can at Foxy.

You released Vanessa's hand in order to open the can, "I mean I am thirsty..." you hummed, a smile on your face.

Vanessa glared at Mike from across the room, "It's Fizzy Faz. It's disgusting."

You noticed that Vanessa was currently glaring at Mike as the man took his seat, "You sure? Is it disgusting or... Do you not want to drink it because of Mike?"

Her eyes snapped onto you, "Because of Mike? Wh-"

"Come on, Nessy," you grabbed her hand across the table once more, placing the can down onto the table, "I've noticed the glaring. What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on, Y/N," she didn't intend for her voice to sound so cold or snappy, but she couldn't help it.

A frown appeared on your face, "V..."

She sighed heavily, "Sorry. Sorry, Y/N. It's nothing, okay? Mike just..."

You had a slight suspicion of what was going on, but you really wanted her to tell you, "You can talk to me, Nessy. You know I won't judge you, right?"

"It's so stupid, Y/N," she laughed, shaking her head.

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, Vanessa's hand rubbed your knuckles as she tried to think about how to word what she was thinking.

You bit your lip before breaking the silence, "Can you play skee-ball?"

Vanessa was confused by the question, "Skee-ball?"

"Yeah. Are you any good at it?"

"I... I haven't played in a while. But I'd say I've still got it."

"Would you like to teach me instead?" you smirked.

Vanessa rolled her eyes, knowing what you were getting at, "Y/N..."

"Come on, Vanessa. Just admit you didn't like seeing Mike teach me like that."

She scoffed, "Can you blame me? Wouldn't you be pissed if you saw someone all up on your girlfriend like that?"

"To be honest I didn't think anything of it in the moment. I'm sorry, I should've been more aware. I wouldn't give you up for anything. You believe me, right?" you said, hoping for her to understand.

With a sigh, Vanessa nodded, "It's okay, Y/N. I didn't think you were in the wrong," her eyes drifted over to Mike who was currently downing his can of Fizzy Faz, a grimace appeared on his face as he slammed the can down onto the table, "You know he likes you, right?" she looked back at you.

You briefly glanced towards him, "I don't think so..."

She laughed slightly, "Of course he does. Those longing looks, the lingering touches. Him holding your hand teaching you how to play skee-ball. It's every cliché in the book."

"Okay, so maybe he does. But I promise to turn him down if anything happens, okay?"

With a nod, she replied, "Okay. Sorry for acting this way."

"I think it's cute. Shows that you care about me."

She almost looked offended, "Cute is not the word I would use to describe me."

You let go of her hand, she was surprised by the sudden lack of touch. You made your way round to sit in the seat next to her, "You are cute, whether you like it or not," you leaned your head on her shoulder.

Vanessa couldn't stop herself from resting her cheek against your head. The two of you looked over at the animatronics who were still performing, Foxy now having his own little performance on his own stage.

You stretched your arm across the table to grab your can of Fizzy Faz, you removed your head from Vanessa's shoulder to take a sip...

"It's disgusting."

"Told you," Vanessa smirked in victory, "It's probably years out of date too, I can't imagine what it tastes like."

You put the can back down before turning towards Vanessa, "You should taste it."

"I think I will pass on that, thanks."

"You sure?" you leaned closer.

Vanessa turned her head towards yours. She wasted no time in pressing her lips to yours, a soft smile creeping up onto her face. You smiled into the kiss as you felt Vanessa's hand creep up your neck to hold the back of your head. Sadly, you both needed to breath so she pulled away.

She licked her lips causing your breath to hitch... A grimace soon appeared on her face, "God, it tastes disgusting."

You couldn't help but laugh, "I know."

That didn't stop Vanessa from going in for seconds, though.

Vanessa x F!Reader - Safety Latch (Fluff,Angst,First Kiss)

Vanessa x F!Reader - Total Insecurity (Angst,Hurt/Comfort)

#fnaf gif #fnaf x reader #fnaf #fnaf movie #fnaf vanessa x reader #vanessa shelly x reader #vanessa monroe #vanessa fnaf #vanny x reader #mike schmidt x reader #five nights at freddys #mike schmidt

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intoxicated-chan · 11 months

Note

I just wanted to say I love your writing 😭 and if I could request like what if Miguel O’Hara was kinda close with some spider kid (around like 16?) and they reminded him of the daughter he lost? (All in a platonic father m daughter way)

Welcome to the Family

✿ฺ Paring ➳❥ Miguel O’Hara & Spider!Teen!F!Reader

✿ฺ Summary ➳❥ Miguel didn’t know what you reminded him of, but it takes a few times to finally get it.

✿ฺ (A/n) ➳❥ Inspired by “Welcome to the Family” by Avenged Sevenfold. Thank you for waiting and for requesting! And thank you for loving my writing. It means a lot.

✿ฺ Word Count ➳❥ 1.5k

✿ฺ Content Warnings ➳❥ Female reader, abuse, angst-to-fluff, talk of marriage, violence, injuries…

Small Spoiler Warning for ATSV!!

Alright, let me explain… My name is (Y/n) (L/n), and I was bitten by a radioactive spider. For the past two years, I’ve been the one and only Spider-Woman. I thought everything was going well until I was disowned by my parents, and lost my aunt the same day. From then on, I chose to be distant from society, no matter how much I craved a relationship.

“What are you doing here (F/n).” You crossed your arms, staring directly at the man you once called father.

“I’m still your father.”

“I thought you said, you’re no longer the child I raised?” You told.

“Don’t talk back to me!”

“I’m simply stating the fact is all.”

He shakes his head, “You know, your mother is disappointed. And I’m sure your aunt would be as well.”

Your eyes narrow at him, “Don’t you speak of my aunt.”

“I can talk to her however I want, she is my sister.”

“A sister you abandoned.”

The second he stepped towards you, you jumped back, keeping yourself at a distance, “Why the hell are you here anyways? I know you don’t want to see me.”

“You can still make this right.” He started to explain, “The boy’s family is still willing to have you, even after your idiotic display of teenage emotions. You either take the boy or leave.”

“I told you I won’t. It’s shocking how you’re willing to betray your daughter over a family you don’t even know.”

“I never wanted a daughter! If you want to make things right, if you want us to forgive you, then you will marry this boy!”

“And I told you no! Now get out of here!” You shouted at him, “Leave me alone!”

“I should’ve left you and your mother the day you were born.” And with that, he’s gone, slamming the door to the rooftop on his way out.

But you. You’re a mess.

Your mother didn’t hate you as much as your father did, but you could see it every time she looked at you. The disappointment, the failure, and how much of a disgrace you were to your so-called family.

And that boy was supposed to fix everything, only because he was made of money.

You fell to your knees, holding yourself as tight as possible as you cried to yourself. As much as you were out of there, you were all alone.

No family and you lost your only friend. Your aunt.

Then, you saw trash floating in front of you. You grabbed the cab right out of the air and saw it reflecting colors that were behind you… Behind you?

You slowly stood, turning around to see a rather colorful portal. It was causing some effect as everything around it was floating, then you heard it.

First, it sounded like a whisper then it came right at you. Luckily you dodged on time and the figure flew past you.

A loud thud, followed by a man’s voice getting angry at a woman called Lyla.

You hid behind a metal pole, watching the man stand to his feet, “This is the fourth time Lyla!” He growled.

“I told you, it’s still in the prototype stage.” She retorted.

“And I-“ He sees you, badly hiding behind the pole.

“…Hi?” You wave.

“Lyla, is this?”

“Yep, this universe’s Spider-Man, or Spider-Woman.” She corrected.

“I’m-“ His nose scrunches, “Is this a bad time?”

“What?”

He points to his eyes, “They’re red.”

“Oh! Um, it’s fine. Everything is fine.” You lie, rubbing your eyes and probably making them worse, “It was taken care of.”

He hums, “Then, I’m Miguel O’Hara and I’m Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man? But I thought I was the only one.” You began to circle him, “But your suit is very… Blue.”

“Thanks. As I was saying, I am Spider-Man but from another universe. I need you to come with me.”

“Why should I go with you?” You eye him up and down.

“I’ve seen what happened here. How your parents are disappointed in you. All I am asking you is to trust me, I offering you a chance for a new chance.” He sticks his hand out, “So?”

That was almost a year ago…

“I can look after Mayday for you.” You tell Peter B. who looks very tired.

“Are you sure?” He tiredly asked.

“Of course, go and get some rest.” Taking Mayday in your arms and pushing him away, “Looks like it’s me and you today!”

She coos at you, reaching toward your face, “How about we pay Uncle Miggy a visit? Wouldn’t that be fun?” She giggles in response, “Let’s go then.” Holding her tightly, not wanting to swing with her arms.

Miguel’s eyes are focused on the screen, hearing his daughter’s laughter made him heartache.

“Miguel!” You shout from below, “Care to come down?! I rather not have her fall!”

He’s fast to close the screen and lowering his desk or… The desk is down on the ground. A minute later, it hits the ground and he turns to face you.

“Yes?” He rubs his eyes.

“Tired as well?”

“No.”

“Lies!” You come closer, taking a seat on the floating thing, “Come on, sit with me.” Setting Mayday on the ground, luckily her web shooter was taken away recently.

Miguel does as you say, “Is something wrong?” He asked.

“I just wanted to talk to you, is that wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just you sounded worried at first. I thought something happened.”

You run your fingers through her hair carefully, “You’re doing it again, shutting everyone out by shoving yourself into work.”

Miguel sighs, “I told you, the fate of the multiverse-“

“Let’s not talk about work right now.” You use your webbing to bring the paper bag towards you, “I know sweets are not your thing so I brought an empanada with me.”

Two cupcakes and an empanada. One for you and Mayday. You hand the empanada to Miguel who gladly takes it.

Then hand a cupcake to Mayday, “Please eat it carefully.” You beg her, knowing either way it’s going to be a mess.

Before you could even take a bite out of yours, she begins climbing you with her sweet still in hand which makes some of the fostering go on you.

“Mayday!” You laugh, and she sets herself on your shoulders, eating her cupcake, “At least she’s happy.” Finally, you take a bite of yours, not noticing Miguel’s stare.

His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open, and his breathing staggered. His heart once again broke at the sight. He didn’t know what to feel, what to say, or do.

“Miguel? Are you alright?” You gently pull Mayday off your shoulders and back to the ground, “You haven’t taken a bite.”

“Yeah.” He’s trying so hard to keep himself together, “I’m alright.”

Then a few weeks pass… or so you thought.

“This was his fault!”

“He was just trying to help!”

“Help?! Look where it put her!”

Whose voice was whose? Why does everything feel so heavy? Why… Why is it so dark?

“Miguel! Calm down!”

“Enough! Both of you leave the room.” Jessica orders, “She’s waking up.”

“No, I want to be here.” Miguel tried to stay.

“You’ll see her after you calm down, now go.” Jessica watched until she was sure they were gone.

You open your heavy eyes, wincing at the light in the room, “Jessica?”

“Welcome back. Took your time.”,

“What happened?”

“You went out and followed Gwen to Pavitr’s universe, and so did Miles and Hobie. But everything went haywire, and the ground under you collapsed. You fell a good number of floors. Hobie brought you back.” She explained.

“Miles… Where is he?”

“That’s not my place to say. I know Miguel is waiting outside, I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Thanks, Jessica.”

She leaves and Miguel practically runs in, taking the seat next to your bed.

“…Hi.” You say, sitting up.

“How are you feeling?” Miguel asked.

“Tired, confused… Not sure how to feel after but-“

“(Y/n), you’ve been unconscious for a few weeks. You didn’t just fall, you went in after I told you no.”

“You know I’m not going to stand by.”

“But none of this would’ve happened if you just stayed and done what I told you.”

“Why do you care? I thought your focus was on the multiverse?”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“But why?”

“Because-!” He takes a deep breath, “…I can’t lose another daughter. I never told you what happened but you know that I lost her. I wanted you to stay to the side all these times because every time I look at you, you’re so much like her. Losing you would be the day I snap.”

“I’m… Sorry that I remind you of her. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You whisper.

“I know you didn’t, and I’m just happy that you’re happy.”

You smile, “Can I say something?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

#x reader #x female reader #fluff #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #spider man 2099 #spider man #spiderman x you #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman x y/n #spider man: across the spider verse #spider man x reader #spiderverse #spider punk #Jessica drew

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vxntagedior · 1 year

Text

protector

summary | the moment bucky fell in love with you

pairing | mob!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warning | angst, arranged marriage, age gap, insecurity, violence, fluff ending

word count | 1.5k

You didn’t know anyone in that room. Staying flanked to Bucky’s side, letting him parade you around the room as he talked with the other men he did business with. It wasn’t no secret about what Bucky did, it was how you married him.

Being the only child, and along with being a girl, your father wanted someone to pass down his business to, though offering it to you first, declining immediately because you couldn’t be a part of the mob, Bucky was next pick.

Bucky came from his own lineage, his own family wealth, already the boss of his family business and now the head of yours. After getting married, you moved into his family estate, far from your father and mother, but having the little words of encouragement from your mother made it a little better.

“If he ever hurts you physically or mentally, his reputation be damned, I’ll get you out of there.”

Bucky was the opposite of what you expected, he was respectful towards you since the wedding, making sure to put your comfort first even though your marriage was purely transactional.

Your parents' relationship was the same, but your mother grew to love your father, and the way he worshiped her made her safe. You wanted that one day with Bucky.

Giving a small smile to all the people you passed, there were a few men murmuring to each other about your relationship, some of the women glaring at you, all the same looks you received once you were married.

It wasn’t no secret Bucky was handsome, powerful and wealthy, the whole package to women in the room, and they were envious, a little jealous.

Bucky’s arm was around your waist, squeezing you occasionally, reminding you that he was still looking out for you. Coming up to a group of men, Bucky slid his hand away from you, shaking the hand of everyone.

“And you all know my wife.” He smiled, reattaching his arm. Smiling behind your champagne glass, you just nodded, glancing over each other before your eyes widened.

Brock Rumlow.

Brock was originally supposed to marry you, but once your father heard about what he had done to a business partner's daughter, he cut ties with him. You remembered Brock in your father’s office, the two of them yelling back and forth, hiding behind a pillar, seeing him storm out the estate.

Looking out of the corner of his eye, Bucky noticed how you tensed you quickly, looking down at the ground, keeping that in his head, he whisked the two of you away.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough, turning so he could fully look at you.

“It’s nothing.” You shook your head, not wanting to ruin his night. Bucky just looked at you, but you kept up your wall, “It’s fine, I just thought I saw something.”

Bucky knew you were lying but he wasn’t going to demand you to tell him, just nodding, “You tell me anything if somethings wrong, I don’t care.”

You just nodded, agreeing with him.

Sitting down for dinner, happy that the two of you had a table to yourselves, but seeing as everyone was looking at the two of you, mostly you, waiting for your next move, like they were waiting for you to do something wrong.

“Don’t worry about them.” Bucky whispered, “They’re just envious of you.”

That made you calm down a little bit, finishing up your dinner, making your way towards the stage.

Watching Bucky walk up, you smiled, clapping loudly for him. Standing on the edge of the room, you stayed out of eyesight from everyone, well almost everyone.

Brock had been watching you since the moment you walked in with Bucky. He knew it was you that messed up the arrangement, watching as Bucky came in at the 11th hour, taking all of it from him.

“Well, well, finally alone Mrs. Barnes.” Tensing up at his voice, you tried to get away from Brock, not being past enough, him grabbing onto your upper arm dragging you away.

“Let me go!, stop!” You tried to yell but it seemed like Bucky’s speech was ending, and as everyone started to clap, it canceled out your plea for help.

“Shut up, you bitch!” He shoved you against the wall, cornering you. Turning your face away from him, your arm starting to bruise, tears starting to cascade down your cheeks. “You ruined my life!”

“What?” You didn’t understand what he had been saying. Scoffing, Brock brought his hand to your face, smacking you across the face. Letting out a gasp, your hand instantly came up to your cheek, cradling.

“BUCKY!” You tried to yell, some sound coming out before Brock covered your mouth. You knew what he was capable of, your eyes wide, pleading for him to let you go.

“You know,” He smirked, his other hand slowly creeping up your leg, “I always wanted something from Barnes, his fortune, but I think I got a better prize tonight.”

Before anything could go further, Bucky had been looking for you since he was on stage, remembering where you were standing, seeing how you were gone. Scanning the room again, he saw how Brock was also gone, assuming the worst.

Ending his speech early, he darted off the stage, making his way towards the back of the gala, hearing you call for him.

“BUCKY!”

Eyes wide, Bucky followed the sound of your voice, running down one of the empty hallways, seeing you at the end of it. Seeing red, Bucky stormed towards Brock, shoving him off you, slamming him into the wall.

“You piece of shit.” He spit at him, his forearm pressing against neck, Brock gasping for air, “You think you come here and mess with my wife.”

“C’mon Barnes, she was asking for it.” He smirked. Bucky’s eyes hardened, stepping away from Brock, before swinging a punch to his face.

You gasped, your hands covering your mouth, not knowing what to do, if you should pull Bucky off him or go call for help, both a bad idea.

Standing there helpless, you watched as Bucky punched Brock til the point he was unconscious.

Standing up, wiping the blood from his nose, Bucky turned back to you, seeing the two bruises on you.

“Are you bleeding?” His hands were soft on your cheek, caressing the bruise carefully, not wanting to hurt you anymore.

“No.” You whispered, “But it hurts a lot.”

Saying nothing more, Bucky wrapped an arm around your shoulder, bringing you to the car, forgetting about the gala all together.

“We can’t leave.” You protested.

“Your hurt, nothing is more important.” He stated, leaving no room for you to argue. Letting you hold his hand the entire way home, your thumb slightly moved over his bruised knuckles, touching it softly like he did when he held your cheek.

Driving in the estate, barely bringing the car into park, Bucky was already out the door, coming to your side, bringing you into the bathroom.

Pulling out the first aid and medical equipment he had, setting you up on the bathroom counter, Bucky rummaged through it all.

“Nothing’s gonna make it go away.” You whispered, not wanting to get him mad, “It’ll go away on its own eventually.”

You didn’t know what caused it, but watching him freeze, his head still looking down, you heard him let out a sob.

“Bucky.” You said cautiously. Looking up at you, tears now in his eyes, Bucky couldn’t help but apologize.

“I’m sorry.” He choked, “I’m so sorry.”

Wrapping his arms around you, Bucky cried onto your dress, his head pressed against your chest. Not really knowing what to do, you slowly cradled his head in your arms, running your hair through his hair.

“It’s okay.” You whispered, pulling him away from you, wiping away his tears. “I never told you about it and you were protecting me, that’s all I could ever do for you.”

It was like a lightbulb in both of your heads had clicked, looking into his eyes, before looking down at his lips before looking up at him again. Bucky seemed to have the same idea, slowly leaning in.

The kiss was soft, your hands still on his face, slowly moving your lips in sync with his. Pulling away, you rested your forehead onto his, smiling softly. That kiss was the first one since you were married and had been better than you imagined.

Letting out a watery laugh, Bucky stood between your legs, his hands on your waist. “I wanted to do that for so long.”

“Really.” You whispered, you always thought Bucky never really thought about a romantic relationship with you.

“And I know that we haven’t really been a married couple, and I didn’t want to pressure you into anything, letting you take the first steps. I know that I wasn’t your first choice, but I promise you, I will always make sure you’re okay, you are my number 1 priority, I didn’t marry you for your father’s chair, I married you because I knew that I could see a family with you.”

Smiling, you caressed his cheek, sighing softly. “I love you.”

Bucky always believed that he didn’t have a heart, he didn’t have any love in his body, never imagining he’d be married let alone being married to one of the most wonderful women he had ever met.

“I love you too, my love, with my whole being.”

fin.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x wife!reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes x wife!reader #bucky barnes #mafia!bucky

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florence-nomachine · 5 months

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Doctor's Orders - S. Raglan x Reader x M. Schmidt

You and Mike are having intimacy issues, and Dr Raglan is the best couples therapist in town.

A/N: Pure filth and nothing more. This might be the dirtiest fic I've ever made...Minors DNI

Word count: 2.4K

Tags: Threesomes / Cuckolding / Dom + Sub dynamics / Age gaps – Steve is in his 50’s, Reader and Mike are in their mid 20s / Hints of manipulation / Abuse of power / Oral sex, fem and male receiving / Breeding / Humiliation / Overstimulation / Sex rivalry / Unprotected sex / Dirty talk

Dr Raglan was a renowned couples therapist in your town, which was why you were so eager to see him with your boyfriend Mike. Even though you’d been together for a while, when it came to sex you’d found that he had trouble staying ‘up’, and even reaching orgasm. He insisted it wasn’t you, but the egotistical part of you worried that you weren’t enough.

Still, you would’ve never guessed that, upon hearing your issues, the doctor would’ve been gracious to extend the session by another hour, free of charge. It slightly worried you that your issues were apparently that bad, but you took it anyway.

“I like you two,” Steve said. “A lot, actually. I’m very happy to help you out,”

He wasn’t lying. He’d been lusting over you for the whole session, his cock growing hard at how desperate you were to get through to Mike, even willing to do the work on your part. You were such a sweet, attentive little girlfriend, and yet Mike seemed like a total loser. Utterly powerless.

The pair of you were still sitting down as he got up, walking around to stand behind you and place his large hands on your shoulders. He smirked as Mike looked at him, ready to argue, whilst you seemed uncomfortable.

“I’m going to use Y/N here as an example,” he said, instructing you to stand up. He didn’t even bother to ask for your permission - you were nothing but a toy. A toy and a tool to be fucked. It was going to help your issues, after all.

You stood up, and he cupped a finger under your chin so that you looked into his eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“Strip,” he said, and your eyes grew wide.

“Y/N, don’t —“ Mike interjected, sticking out a hand defensively, but Steve stopped him.

“That’s your problem, Mike. Stop trying to be the hero,” he said forcefully. You hesitated before squeezing Michael’s hand and beginning to undress. You loved Mike more than anything, and wanted to move towards the next stage of your relationship.

Mr Raglan knew best.

As you undressed, you noticed a visible bulge in Steve’s pants, and Mike, though quiet, seemed to be developing one too, but hid it with his hands. Their eyes were filled with lust, and Dr Raglan seemed to hum with approval as he took in your semi-nude body as you assumed your position on top of his desk.

You were undressed all for him; naive and exposed to what was about to come.

He was ready to fucking consume you.

But he had to be professional.

“You see, your intimacy problem has nothing to do with her, and everything with you,” he said, pointing at Mike. “She’s such a cute little thing with a body just begging bred. Any man would be lucky to have her…And yet you can’t appreciate something good. Why is that?”

Steve smirked as he saw your legs twitch at the mention of breeding, and he looked between the pair of you knowingly. Mike seemed unresponsive, whilst you were like a deer in headlights.

“You’re building it up too much. You keep thinking things are going to be mind-blowing, and that you’re going to be the best she’s ever had, but in actuality it’ll probably be average. You need to learn to live with being disempowered,”

You glanced over worriedly at Mike. Perhaps the loss of his brother was the root of the deeper issue?

“Has he touched you here?” Steve said, his large hands reaching to massage your breasts. His hands were cold whilst your chest was warm, causing your nipples to harden against his touch. The older man chuckled, rolling the bud against his fingers before he tugged them, showing them off to your boyfriend. He’d barely done anything, and you were responding to him so well.

“Y-Yes…”

“Do you usually get turned on so quickly?”

“I’m not—“ you protested, trying to ignore the growing heat between your thighs. “—It’s just because your hands are cold,”

“Sure. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said mockingly. “How about you have your boyfriend come warm you up?”

You looked over pleadingly at Michael and he obliged, getting up to place his hand on your other breast, but not without giving Dr Raglan a side eye, to which the older man brushed off. You stared up at them with glassy eyes as they fondled your breasts, with Mike’s touch more gentle compared to Steve’s pawing. You weren’t oblivious to Raglan’s now hardened bulge either, as he pressed his groin into the bare skin of your knee, teasing you with what was to come.

“Doesn’t look like you’re doing a good job there, Mike,” he said matter of factly. “Unsurprising, considering everything I know about you. Let me show you how to take care of business,”

His bigger frame pushed Mike to the side, and you could see him clench his fists in frustration. Steve stared down at you hungrily, one of his hands sliding past your breast to grab the base of your neck; squeezing it ever so slightly as his other hand made its way to your panties. He spread your legs so that you were on display, his thick fingers rubbing against your slit through the material.

“I bet I can make her cum just from my hands…” he said, staring down at Mike who remained in his seat. As much as he hated watching a perverted older man like Raglan touch you, part of him was actually enjoying it. He knew you were hot, and to see someone making you feel as sexy and liberated as you deserved made him feel good in turn. Perhaps the Doctor was right - he needed to be comfortable feeling powerless.

“You said you’ve tried oral sex, correct?” Steve said, clearing his throat. You looked up at him and nodded shyly, and he tutted.

“I want you to say it,” he insisted, briefly removing his hands from your panties. “Tell me what you do to him,”

“Um —“ you said, flustered from the sudden loss of pressure. “I touch him through his pants first. He’s usually hard then, so I take it out — I don’t suck him off immediately, I like to keep it going with my hands…”

Steve began to unbuckle his belt before pulling down his zipper and taking out his cock through the hole, beginning to stroke it lazily as you droned on about trying to please your boyfriend. He was aching to see you in all the degrading positions you’d put yourself in for Mike’s benefit (to no success), even more so at the prospect of being in front of him.

“Show me,” Steve groaned, positioning his cock towards your face. “Give me everything you’ve been craving,”

You abided by his words and stroked him, moaning as he resumed his motions on top of your panties. He was bigger than Mike, and you could feel him throb in your hands with every tug, desperate to penetrate your lips. You remained like this for a moment before the older man pushed your panties to the side, the cool hair sending shivers down your hot cunt. Steve greedily pushed two of his lithe fingers inside of you, grunting at the sensation as he felt the insides of your thigh on his arms, grazing his hairs ever so slightly.

“She’s fucking dripping,” he laughed, staring Mike in the eye. “She feels so good down here. I wonder how her mouth feels —“ he stated, and angled your head around his cock. You took it in your mouth instinctively, eyes widening in shock as he hit the back of your throat unexpectedly. Steve was almost completely feral; wasting no time in thrusting deeper into your mouth whilst his fingers explored your fold, making sure to rub your clit.

“—Like heaven,” he purred, and it was as if something deeper had arisen within him. “Don’t be shy Mike. You should get in on this,” he teased, giving the younger man all but two seconds before focusing back onto you. You were mewling and writhing under his power, and if he were a teenager he probably would’ve cum right there and then. Luckily for him, he was a man now.

Mike obeyed, and quietly made his way between your legs, watching in awe at the way your juices coated the man’s fingers. It looked heavenly; and it killed him to think he was missing out. All he ever wanted to do was please you.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock so that he could touch himself. He inched towards your spread pussy, one hand on his cock and the other keeping your panties out of the way and practically dived in, eagerly lapping at your folds, causing Steve to hum in amusement.

The sensation was painfully overwhelming, with Steve’s fingers now rubbing at your hood, and Mike’s lips licking and sucking on your insides. It was beyond pornographic, and you wondered whether this was genuinely helpful or just a self-serving ruse.

“Ugh,” you moaned, and pushed Mike’s head deeper into you, prompting yet another reaction from Steve.

“Seems like he can do something well, hm? I suppose this is the part where everything goes to shit?”

“For your information, I never said I couldn’t make her cum,” Mike snapped, staring daggers into Steve as he momentarily drew himself away from your cunt.

“I’ll admit –” he began, stopping to groan as he began thrusting faster into your mouth, your cheeks hollowing around his cock and nose repeatedly making contact with his pants, “--That’s impressive, but it’s child’s play. You’re a child, Mike. She needs a real man…”

Even though it was wrong, your pussy twitched around Mike as the pair bickered; using your body like a ragdoll. You weren’t a person to them, but a vessel, and it was sparking something within Mike that you hadn’t seen, licking along your folds and up towards your clit, flicking his tongue upon the nub as two fingers pumped into you. All he’d needed was a bit of ‘friendly’ competition.

“Mike —” you whimpered against Steve’s cock. “I’m gonna —”

“Get off her, Mike,” Steve commanded, and the younger man obeyed, his frustration growing deeper. The Dr drew himself from your face, leaving a trail of spit against your swollen lips.

“That’s not how this is going to go –” he stated, guiding your body so that you were spread flat on top of his desk, your legs dangling off of the sides. Steve towered above you, and even though Mike was in the room you felt like a shrew underneath his predatory gaze, waiting to be devoured. You stared up at him with wide eyes, and you almost came as he smiled down at you, a large, calloused hand rubbing along the sides of your body, spreading your cunt effortlessly with two fingers and admiring the mess you’d made.

“--I’m gonna fuck her, and you’re gonna watch. Got it?” he said forcefully, staring Mike down. “Don’t try to save her, Mike. She doesn’t need saving. Let it go,”

Mike nodded, and Steve barely gave you any time to react before he thrust into you, practically gasping at the hot, wet sensation against his aching cock. His grip on your legs were firm, slinging them around his waist so that he had full control over you, relishing in the sight of your breasts moving with every motion, and your mouth agape as he filled you up. Mike was stroking himself, his face flushed as he watched you intently, completely inebriated on oxytocin. There were no sympathetic smiles or gentle hugs when he couldn’t ‘perform’, but a different person entirely - the sex goddess you deserved to be. It was dirty, and so very wrong, but he was enjoying every moment.

Steve’s thrusts were getting faster now, to the point that you could feel his thighs slap against your own, much more his heavy balls against your aching pussy, causing the desk to creak. His eyes darkened as one hand made its way to your throat, squeezing ever so slightly as his cock seemed to hit at you from every angle.

“You like this, hmm?” he cooed, a large smirk wiped across his face. “Getting fucked by an older man whilst your mess of a boyfriend watches? He can’t make you moan like I do, huh?”

You could barely answer, but managed to shake your head.

“Hm, you’re pretty fucked up, aren’t you? I think you and I should have a little private session n’ work some of those issues through…”

You moaned louder, and Steve let out a gleeful cackle before looking over at Mike, who was in a daze.

“I consider myself a fair guy. Get over here,” he gestured to him, and once he was there you took Mike’s cock in your mouth, helping him finish what had been started. He threw his head back as you eagerly licked and sucked on his tip, using your hands to stroke his base and steady him in your mouth.

You’d reached complete overstimulation; and you could feel a familiar heat pooling in your stomach, your body instinctively beginning to grind itself on Steve’s cock. Mike drew himself deeper into your mouth, briefly making you choke at his desperate motions, and Steve placed his hands onto your hips, holding you down and beginning to fuck you mercilessly.

“Touch her,” he ordered, and Mike began rubbing your pussy in circles, adding to the unfathomable feeling. “Feel how much she’s trembling because of me. She’s such a slut, you know that? You might own her heart, but I own her pussy – Fuck – She’s perfect...”

The sound of his throaty voice made you unravel, and you threw your head back as you came, desperately pulling Mike into a kiss as you did. It was euphoric, made all the more otherworldly when Steve said a certain few words:

“I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fill this pretty pussy up real good, like a real man does. Didn’t you see the way she begged and moaned for me? Our pretty little fucktoy —”

He came with a loud groan and his glasses almost slid off of his face as he lurched forward whilst his fingers left marks on your skin as he held you down to pump his hot, heavy seed into your aching hole. You were both sweaty, and you felt your eyes flutter shut from the exhaustion. As Steve rode off his high he drew his hips back, watching his seed slowly drip out of you and onto his desk.

Smirking, he caught his breath before walking over to assume Mike’s position at your mouth, looking down at him expectedly.

“It’s your turn. I hope you don’t mind the mess I’ve made,”

@dij-ology

#florence_nomachine #florence writes!!#mike schmidt x reader #steve raglan x reader x mike schmidt #william afton x reader x mike schmidt #mike schmidt smut #steve raglan smut #steve raglan x reader #william afton smut #william afton x reader #fnaf smut

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ellieslittlewh0re · 5 months

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ִ ⋆｡ °✩ ❝ 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐄 𝐋♡𝐕𝐄 ❞ ✩°｡⋆

(𝒘𝒌) 5k

〚𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒〛 ✰ rockerstar! ellie x groupie! reader ✰

〚𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒〛 ellie williams. her name was everywhere- the underground music’s next breakout star, and for a good reason too- a honeyed voice mixed with gravel, her passion, energy, the fact she was everything rock and roll should be. also, let’s not forget the sex appeal.

〚𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒〛 sex, love, drugs, and rock and roll. !!TW!! for descriptions of drug usage ( c0cain, L$D) fingering (r! receiving), oral (r! receiving), strap on usage (r! receiving) overstim kinda, dom e!, sub r!

It started with a video- a grainy, shity quality one at that, but still a video. She was center stage of some grungy bar from the looks of it, spotlights illuminating her face enough to see stands of her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, and a chipped cherry red electric guitar hanging from her shoulder. She was magnetic, hypnotizing- not just with her performance, but her looks as well.

From that day on, you just had the desire to get closer to her in any way you could.

It had been two months since you started following her band while they toured across the West Coast. You had been to every show, seen every performance, and Ellie was starting to catch on.

The first time she saw you, you immediately caught Ellie's attention- I mean, how could you not? You were by far the hottest girl in the venue that night, swinging your hips so effortlessly it put the rest of the girls to shame. Ellie remembers that night vividly because she was so pissed she couldn't find you after the show to bring you back to her shitty motel room and have her way with you. But Ellie quickly forgot about you when the company of two other girls took your place that night, along with a few too many hits of whatever her drug of choice was during that time.

So, that's how you ended up here- at a run down gas station bathroom touching up your makeup in the middle of the fucking desert, and a van full of strangers that you were currently hitching a ride with waiting outside at the pumps.

And Ellie? Well, Ellie was doing what she always does before a show- drugs, and lots of them, whether it was molly, coke, weed, tabs, or maybe even a deadly concoction of all the above, she didn't care as long as it made her feel alive- claiming it made her perform better or something, but really she just liked being fucked up while fucking girls after the show.

While Ellie was living this "glamorous" rockstar lifestyle, you were on the complete opposite end- quitting your day job to follow some girl around who doesn't even know your name and catching rides from people who definitely look like they have seen the inside of a prison cell- AKA, you were a groupie.

The air was hot, stale. A thin layer of orangy, rust-colored sand coated the windows and the van's gaudy upholstery. The landscape outside flashed like an old fashioned reel movie, cacti, shrubs, Joshua trees, and repeat.

It was desolate, and if the road and occasional mile marker wasn't there to remind you, you would've thought you were on a different planet.

"Your stop is next, daisy." The man with a handle bar mustache yelled from the drivers seat, meeting your eyes in the review mirror.

Daisy. A nickname given to you by the group when they first picked you up further up north. You had a daisy tucked behind your ear, and from then on, you were daisy.

It was dark by the time you arrived at the venue, venue isn't really how you would describe it. It was more like a diner turned bar turned into whatever the fuck it was currently. You waved your goodbyes to the the group of not-so-strange strangers, all of them bidding you 'farewells' and 'good lucks' before you watched the red tails fade into the pitch dark of the desert.

For once, you were early. Turns out a bunch of traveling hippies and outcasts aren't on a timed schedule, who knew?

Even though you were early, the dirt patch of a parking lot was packed, cars in various stages of deterioration lining the sides of the building, and people gathering outside to avoid the cramped interior. But you weren't here to socialize or drink and get high- you just wanted to see her, dance to the strum of her guitar, and let her voice consume and overtake you.

It was 40-ish minutes past midnight, meaning Ellie and her band were late, but that's not a surprise. She had a bad habit of keeping the people waiting, but she was a busy girl- hanging out backstage or at a hotel, a room full of girls for her to pick from, and no shortage of drugs and alcohol. But tonight, she went a little too overboard. Her band mates were practically carrying her across the motel parking lot to their van, trying to get her to sober up on the way to the venue with water and motivational speeches that mostly consisted of "get your fucking shit together".

The short 30 minute drive to the venue was barely long enough to get Ellie back in the right state of mind. She was slightly unsteady on her feet, and her speech was a little slurred, but she's used to preforming under these conditions.

You waited patiently of course, babying a strong cocktail mix since you didn't dare get drunk and risk not remembering every detail of the night- every detail of her.

When the crowd shifted their attention to the back entrance of the building, silent murmurs at first before a load cheer erupting was when you knew, she was here, and she looked like heaven- a black tank top that was torn near the neckline, a studded belt loosely securing a pair of baggy, black patchwork cargo pants.

The crowd parted a pathway for her as she made her way through the room with her bandmates following behind, a cigarette tucked between her lips as she'd occasionally stop to sign whatever was thrown at her- a piece of paper, cash, a pair of tits- which she'd always happily comply, but if she saw a girl she liked, she would lick her pointer finger and index, smearing part of her signature on their cleavage while the marker was still wet to subtly let you know that she wanted your company for the night- at least, that's the rumor you've heard.

You found yourself holding your breath- she was so close, a mere body or two keeping you at arm's length from her. You could smell the cigarette smoke, and see the details of her chipped black nail polish holding the marker between her fingers.

Ellie hands the notebook and marker back into the wave of hands, looking up while blowing out a cloud of smoke, and that's when she sees you. She was about to walk off, but she stopped for a second. You don't look like you belong- you were different, sweet, and innocent-looking compared to the rest of the audience. But she doesn't let her eyes linger long, she has a show to put on after all.

She turned, and walked towards the stage stairs, and centered herself behind the mic. She shifted her weight on her feet, and took one last drag of the cigarette before suffocating the embers on a ashtray near the edge of the stage.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" She barely could make out before the crowds hollering drowned out her voice. She laughed into the mic while plugging a cord into her guitar that was connected to a beefy looking amp.

Her ego was at its biggest right now- just her mere appearance could make a group of strangers act like dogs, and she fucking loved it.

She played a few cords on the guitar, ensuring the tune was where she wanted it before looking back up into the crowd, "c'mon, you can do better than that." And even though her mouth was covered by the mic, you could tell she was smirking.

The crowd cheered louder, fists clenched high above the sea of heads, and chanted her name over and over exactly how she wanted them to.

And for you? Well, you were also chanting her name, maybe not as loud, but you were too busy squeezing your way through to get to the front.

She needed to be able to see you.

And she did see you- you were front row, playfully singing and dancing along, your bright, twinkling eyes boring into every little thing she did- from the way she'd run her hand through the front of her hairline, ridding her face of the baby hairs and bangs, down to the way her fingers curled over the frets of her guitar. She made sure to look elsewhere into the crowd, interacting with everyone, but her eyes always found themselves back on you.

Ellie closed out the show with an encore, most of the crowd was overly intoxicated at this point, stumbling, and starting meaningless fights with whoever was closest- aka the usual time you'd leave, but you couldn't, at least, not when Ellie was walking towards you, her eyes set on you. You glanced to your right then your left- confused, and definitely was searching for an explanation as to why she was getting closer. Surely, it was someone else who caught her attention, but it was only you nearby.

You take a step back from the stage as the tips of her dirty converse near the edge. She bends down at the knees before sitting all together, dangling her legs over the edge. She doesn't say anything, and you didn't either, maybe from intimidation mixed with confusion as to why she chose to sit here out of all places.

She reaches her tattooed arm behind, shifting her weight to pull out a pack of cigarettes, and offering the carton to you, but you shyly decline. She smirked, a dimple deepening on the one side of her cheek, "So-" She said, her voice momentarily muffled by the cigarette between her lips, "-you don't look like you're from here, where'd you come from, baby?" She ignited the end with a metal lighter, holding a free hand up to cover the flame which only amplified the warm glow of the flame on her face.

You chuckled a nervous laugh, looking down at your fingers as she blew out a puff of smoke, "M' not. I'm from up north. " Your voice trembled, leaking with submission and uncertainty which only fascinated her more, but also she was frustrated- most girls wouldn't need a conversation to know what Ellie wanted from them, and you weren't looking at her.

She grabs your hand, and pulls you closer to the space between her knees. A sharp breath gets caught in your throat as she does this, your cheeks hot, and your gut feels like it's jumping being this close to her- enough to smell the fumes of her cologne mixed with ash. You watch her fingers come up and hover over your chest, her fingers gently dancing along the skin of your clavicle to examine the charm of your necklace, but really it was just a flirtation tactic to her.

"What's a girl like you doing in the desert in the middle of the night, huh?" She asked, dropping her voice down to an almost whisper- raspy, and thick with suggestion. You shake your head side to side, a nervous tick of yours when you felt uncomfortable, but being uncomfortable isn't always a bad thing.

"I uh-" you paused, mentally wavering if you should tell the truth since it does seem a little pathetic. "-I wanted to see you play."

Ellie's eyebrows raise, her bottom lip puckering into a frown with a slight nod. "Is that so?" She hummed, rolling the edges of the charm between her fingers. Ellie was certain she had seen you before. It wasn't a trick of the light or getting your face confused with some other hot chick- you were unmistakable. But she didn't want you to know that she found you out, not yet, not now.

Ellie learned in further, your knees almost buckling out from under you, feeling her breath against your lips. She played it off like she was getting a closer look at your necklace, extending the religious symbolic charm out so the chain tugged on your neck. "Do you believe?" She asked, still looking at the damn necklace, furrowing her brows like she was in a deep philosophical thought.

You swallowed dryly, wishing you still had your drink from easier, "N-not really-" you stuttered, "it was a gift from when I was younger."

Ellie chuckled, but it wasn't lighthearted or sweet- it was dark, methodical, and a tad bit sadistic.

She released the charm from her fingers, letting it hit your bare chest with a muted thud before looking up. Her eyes were a darker shade than you remembered them being- irises blown out and framed beautifully by a thick band of dark eyelashes.

Her hand reached out and gently grabbed you by the wrist before yanking you closer so your tummy was flush with the side of the stage, leaving only a few inches between your tits and the denim of her crotch.

You inhaled a sharp, breathy yelp as she did this, your hands not knowing what to do or where to divert your eyes- her hands on you, her face so close to yours that you could count the freckles on her cheeks, even the ones that are faint enough to miss- or maybe how her thighs were drifting apart, and you were in between them.

Her hand comes up, which causes you to squeeze your eyes shut, but the wrinkles around your eyes relax as you feel her hand on your face and her lips on yours. You moaned instantly at the contact, resting your hand on her thigh where it felt most comfortable. Ellie took this opportunity to slip her tongue inside, using the muscle to work against yours. Her hand snakes down your side, squeezing the soft flesh of your hip before pulling away, leaving you breathless, and hazy.

Her eyes were intense looking into yours, her lips wet and craving a deeper satisfaction.

She only said one thing, a simple sentence that would separate you from being just some regular fan,

"Come with me tonight, and I'll show you something worth believing."

So that's how your night shifted- how one decision to follow some band across the state had finally paid off because now you were here- a hotel room, alone with the band's most valuable member snorting lines of a white powdery substance off of a mirror topped end table.

Ellie held the rolled 20 between her fingers, putting the end of it to her nose while the index on her other closed the opposing nostril shut. She dragged the end of the cylinder across the smuggled surface, inhaling deeply until the white line disappeared behind it.

"Fuuck-" She sighed, throwing her head back, and swipes the bottom of her nose with her thumb,

"Here-" She held out the rolled 20 for you to take, but you lean away,

"I don't do that stuff."

She looks at you curiously, a furrow between her brows that suggests she found your refusal even more entertaining.

Ellie leaned forward and turned her body to face you on the edge of the dusty duvet, "What-" She scoffed, "'think you're too good for it?"

You shook your head violently, indicating a 'no', "No- no, that's not what I meant-"

Ellie laughed, causing you to stop mid-sentence, "I'm just fucking with you, doll. I should've known." She smiles, and you return the smile in relief that you didn't actually offend her.

Your eyes divert to the wallpapered walls- a faint pattern of stripes with cream-colored baseboards, a warm yellowed lamp on the bedside being the only source of light in the room to contrast the night outside.

You felt her hand creep up your thigh, tempting the skin below the hem of your dress before it disappeared underneath the fabric altogether. She leaned in, her other hand on your face to encourage you closer, whispering a "so soft" in a raspy breath before connecting your lips with hers.

It started slow- her lips overlapping yours like a soft current on a still morning before it turned into a ranging one during a windy cast. You moaned into her- soft and delicate mews between each detachment, and it fueled her.

Ellie's body overpowered yours, using her strength to her advantage. But it's not like she needed it- you were putty in her hands, fully committing yourself to her, letting her push you into your back, and her body hovering on top of yours.

You squirmed beneath her- each bump, and drag of her knee between your legs left you feeling more desperate.

"Ellie-" you broke the kiss in a breathless euphoria, looking up at her with a needy expression. Ellie knew that face well- it's not like she had all this experience and didn't know what to do with it, so- she got up, leaving you alone on the bed, and walked over to a black duffle bag decorated with pins of miscellaneous logos and bands.

She riffled through it, pulling a small clear plastic bag out before joining you back on the bed.

She opened the baggie, pulling something out no bigger than the size of a postage stamp, and tearing it into smaller halves before looking up,

"Do you trust me?" She asked, her green eyes piercing into yours, causing a wet sensation to spill from the heat between your legs. You swallowed, not really sure what you were agreeing to, but you nodded anyway, "Yes, Ellie... I trust you."

She placed the colorfully decorated paper on her tongue and held the sides of your face, kissing you and slipping her tongue inside, transferring whatever it was into your mouth before pulling away. "Swallow." She demanded, tilting your face up by your chin, and you did it without hesitation- straining the walls of your throat as the mystery stamp slid downwards.

She smirked, and swiped her thumb over your bottom lip, "good girl."

She followed it up by doing the same, placing the tab on her tongue and swallowing, but she made it seem so much more intentional like a ritual of some sorts.

Ellie leaned away from you in the bed to rest her back against the headboard and pillows, "C'mere" she said nonchalantly, patting her thighs.

With shaky knees, you did as you were told and crawled your way up her legs until you were straddling her waist.

Her hands come up to rest on your hips, her thumbs tracing circles through the flimsy fabric of your dress, "so obedient" she said lightly, almost under her breath to herself and not at you directly.

Her hands started to wander- first on your hips, then down to your thighs, gliding them up to the plush beneath your skirt. You felt her fingertip squeeze and caress, sending chills up your spine and a hot/cold sensation throughout your body.

Next, her lips were on yours, and her fingers were tightening the follicles on the back of your scalp as the kisses became more intense. Your back instinctively arches, and you reach a hand between your legs to soothe the ache, but she stops you with a firm grip on your wrist, "Gettin' impatient, huh?" She said in a cocky tone, smirking against your lips. You whimpered- nodding your head, and grabbed her hand, inching it closer to your core.

Ellie chucked at this- the kind of chuckle that was half way a scoff, and half way felt like an insult.

"Damn- you need me to fill you up that bad? 'thought you were one of them good girls."

She tisked her tongue against her teeth, but still let you guid her hand where you needed her.

The back of her knuckles grazed between the pillowy folds over your panties, going agonizingly slow before turning her hand over to fully palm your cunt.

You melt on top of her, resting your head against her shoulder, all the while dragging your hips against her hand.

She turns her head, her warm breath fanning against the helix of your ear, "You're so wet and I've barely touched you."

Her words echoed throughout your brain like her voice waves were sending signals to every part of your body. And her touch was magnified- each cell, fiber, and pore was experiencing a new sense of heightened, whether it be because of the drugs or not, you couldn't be sure.

"El-Ellie, please... need you."

Your words rang a siren song to Ellie's ears, creating a sticky pool between her own legs. She muttered a guttural "fuck" before she grabs you by the sides of your thighs, flipping you over so she was on top of you.

She was already yanking down your underwear, and tossing them to the side before you could comprehend what was happening. You felt her fingers stinging to the flesh of your thighs, prying them apart like she couldn't wait to see you, to taste you.

You sucked in a sharp breath as her tongue lightly traced a line down your folds before her lips met your clit where she pulsated the bud between her lips, letting out a moan as she made contact, "fuuck-" She curses before flicking her tongue over your bundle of nerves, igniting a colorful array of shapes behind your tightly closed eyes.

She was messy but precise- using her tongue along with the motion of her head to send you that much further. Your fingers tangled in her hair, tugging harder the closer you got which was the perfect time in Ellie's eyes to add a finger.

She slowly pushed her middle finger inside, stopping halfway at her knuckle to let you adjust before slamming it all the way till her knuckles were snug against your puffy lips.

You wriggled beneath her, reaching out to push her away with a palm to her shoulder, but that only makes her add a second finger.

You cry out loudly through heavy breaths, the veins on her forearm coming to the surface of her skin from how much force she was using, and her mouth putting in just as much work.

You were climbing higher and higher, the peripheral of your vision going white-

"Ellie... I'm- I'm gonna-" You don't have much time to warn her before your body starts to spaz, starting at your hips and up into your chest like volts of electricity through a highly active current.

Your knees close around her head, your back arching high off the mattress, and your eyes rolling into the back of your head. She slows her pace as you come down before pulling her fingers out and lifting her head.

With your eyes closed, and an arm draped over your face, you feel her pat the inside of your thigh before her weight leaves the bed.

She comes back a couple of minutes later, only opening your eyes when you feel her weight return to the mattress.

Your eyes go wide as you take notice of the new attachment- a black, strappy harness with buckles near her hips, and a crude shaped silicone cock bulging at her crotch.

She lowers herself over you, her hands on each side of your head before she leans down to kiss you, slipping her tongue inside. She pulled back, momentarily admiring the way you looked just from something as simple as oral and some fingering- glossy eyes, puffy lips smeared with her spit, and if she looked down- how your inner thighs glistened.

Her lips trial from yours, staring at your neck, then your chest, and finally your tits which Ellie had absolutely no problem with pulling the straps down to expose them, leaving the fabric bunched around your stomach. In her eyes, everything she wanted- no, needed was accessible this way.

Ellie looks up, placing a delicate kiss on the skin of your lower stomach, "Got one more fr' me, pretty girl?" She asked softly, tenderly, but it still managed to come off more intimidating than a question should sound.

You nodded shyly, a small whine emitting from the back of your throat, looking down at her with your breasts out for her viewing, grabbing pleasure, and your legs spread wide, ready to take her.

She lifted her upper half up, slim fingers holding the base of her cock, and lined the artificial tip with your entrance. She glided the tip up your folds, coating it with your slick, and let out a sultry exhale since she could practically see your walls clenching around nothing in preparation for her.

She teased you for a bit- only giving you a couple of inches before backing away and repeating, each time causing you to whine harder and harder out of frustration. Sure, Ellie was having her fun watching you squirm, grab for her, and fuck- how your hole gapped each time she pulled out, a clear, viscous fluid leaking from it, but she was growing just as impatient- feeling your legs wrap around her waist, pulling her closer, pleading variations of her name and "please" and who is she to deny you when you ask so nicely?

She thrusts her hips forward until her crotch was flesh with your ass, your legs in the air, and her hands pushing on the back of your thighs.

"Is this what you wanted, huh?" She gritted, pulling her hips back only to snap them forward again.

You cried out loudly, curling your fingers around the bedsheets until the blood stopped circulating, turning the skin there a lighter shade than the rest of you.

She pushed harder on the back of your thighs- your knees pressed up against your chest, and using what you can imagine is all of her strength to thrust into you. She was reaching the deepest part of your cervix- grunting and moaning on Ellie's end while you mewled high-pitched noises mixed with the wet slapping of her cock repeatedly slamming into you.

Ellie's eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly upward, and her lips parted as insufficient, short breaths seep from them. Her hips started to falter from the endless abuse her clit was suffering behind the base of her strap, her boxers now a sticky, cold mess that stuck to her cunt and thighs.

She collapses on top of you, snugging herself between your legs to connect her lips to yours in a desperate effort, overpowering all your senses with her. She continues to fill you over and over again, both of you moaning in between breathless lips.

You wrapped her arms around her as her head hung low into your neck, digging your nails into the skin of her shoulder blades.

"El... mmhm- I'm gonna-" You babbled before biting your lip to silence the cry that was bubbling in the back of your throat, and Ellie wasn't far behind.

The pistoning motions of her hips turned into a grinding one- keeping a steady pace and rolling her hips forward, "M-me too- fuck... stay with me, yeah?" She said in between soft pants, the warmth of her breath brushing against your lips as her hand came up to gently but firmly wrap around your neck.

Ellie's head goes fuzzy as you looked up at her with your half-hooded gaze and your perfectly rosette lips that are just begging to be wrapped around something, so- she released the hold she had on your neck and brought her two fingers that were previously inside of you to your mouth.

She didn't even have to say anything for you to part your lips wider, slipping her fingers inside and rolling them over your tongue.

You moan, closing your lips around her as her fingers reach further back, causing tears to fall from the corner of your eyes.

"That's it-" She coaxed, her eyes focused on the split trailing down your chin,"-such a good girl."

She motioned her fingers in and out in a vulgar manner, bitting her bottom lip before pulling her fingers out all together to fist the bed sheets beside her.

"Fuckfuckfuck-oh my god-" She grunted incoherently, dropping her head to space between your neck and shoulder. Her forehead glistened with proof of her efforts as she rushed the pace to ease the itch between her legs.

You tightened your legs around her waist, pretty little noises falling on Ellie's ears as you both peak.

She rolls her hips- making it slow and deep until your voice grows tired and quiet before pushing her upper half away from you.

You wince at her absence, feeling your walls retract back to its original shape like the sand inside of an hourglass.

She plopped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh of exhaustion, pulling up the bottom of her tank top to wipe the slick/sweat mixture from her chin and nose, giving you a few seconds to admire her hardened stomach and prominent 'v' which lead your eyes down to the fake dick still standing high between her thighs.

She catches you looking, the corner of her lips tugging into a smirk as she lets out a low chuckle.

You meet her eyes, realizing you have been caught, which causes you to look away quickly, but her hand grabs yours.

"Gettin' shy on me now after all that?" She said, pulling at your hand to silently instruct you to get on top of her, so you did.

Her hands rub up and down your thighs, and her bottom lip snug between her teeth. She eyes your body, starting from your tits down to her cock that is resting against your lower stomach.

"Wanna do me a favor?" She asked, palming the fat of your thigh that spilled over the heels of your feet. You hummed at her- a sweet, genuine hum that was full of eagerness to assist her, which almost made Ellie feel bad for what she was about to say- key word almost.

"Put that pretty little mouth of yours to use and clean me up."

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rosepascal · 5 months

Text

reunion || wed!Joel Miller x reader smut

summary: Going to your 10 year high school reunion was a mistake when you're forced to see your worst enemy after all these years. After a shitty reunion you decide to ease your tension at the bar where you meet a very handsome stranger. What's wrong with indulging in a little fun? (worst enemies dad!Joel)

warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+ ONLY, rough sex, Joel is in his 50's and the reader is almost 30, pussy eating, blow job, big dick joel miller, drinking, swearing, doggy style, joel pushes your face into the pillow, cowgirl, he fucks up into you. This is pure fucking filth lmao.

part 2

a/n: sooooo uh i this happened. I hope you enjoy this fic and it lives up to all ur smutty expectations <3 Also i couldnt come up with a good acronym for this so ur getting a shitty one.

You really thought that all the high school bullshit was over. I mean you graduated 10 years ago, you’re almost 30 for fucks sake. Yet when you walked into the old school gym for your high school reunion it felt like you were transported back to some of the worst years of your life.

You should never have agreed to go.

You don’t care about what everyone is up to, you see that on instagram already. Though despite their “perfect” lives on social media, you doubt that any of it is entirely true.

“Hi! Welcome!” You’re taken back by the incredibly cheery voice greeting you as you walk in the door.

After slapping on a name tag sticker you take in the gym. You spot a few people you remember and a few people who you used to talk to. After high school you lost touch with most of the people there sadly but they wave you over and you join them to save yourself from standing alone. Catching up is nice as you sip your punch that you wish had been spiked because the night was about to become incredibly unbearable.

“Welcome class of 2013!” A shrill voice nearly peaks the mic and it makes your blood run cold.

Of course class President Courtney Miller would be here.

Ever since you were kids Courtney Miller hated your guts. She tripped you on the playground, lied to the teacher, and told you that you couldn’t play on the playground at the same time as her and her friends. As you got older it only became worse. She’d spread lies about you and make nasty comments in the hallway.

Anything you found happiness in she tried to destroy. You thought once you left school you’d never have to deal with her again. Yet she managed to appear on your social media with her perfect husband and perfect life. Seeing her again made you want to turn and run but you stand your ground.

Her fake over the top smile makes you want to gag as she goes on her speech about how happy she is to see everyone again to relive the glory days of high school. When her speech is over she gets off stage to greet her old popular friends who never grew out of high school.

In fact someone tried to fit into their old letterman jacket. Her eyes meet yours and she smirks. She saunters her way over to you and you flash her the fakest smile you can manage.

“It’s so good to see you again!” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm as the people around you turn their heads.

“The last time I remember seeing you is prom, remember? Your date stood you up and went with me instead.” She cackles like a witch as you feel anger begin to boil.

“Really? I thought the last time we saw each other was graduation, when you stuttered through your whole speech in front of everyone.” You shoot back with a smile. Her smile never falters but her eyes shoot daggers at you.

“Great catching up.” She sneers at you, walking away and bumping you in the shoulder as she does.

The reunion is uneventful for most of the night. A few whispers here and there about you and Courtney but you couldn’t care less. It was getting boring truthfully. As you walk to the snack table you feel someone bump into you, followed by the feeling of punch being thrown on your back.

“Oh sorry, didn’t see you there.” You hear laughter as you tense up from the cold drink.

Everyone is laughing and you see Courtney standing by a guy with an empty punch cup. Her eyes light up with a smug look. Of course this was her doing. Anger and embarrassment swirls in your head as you throw your cup down and storm out of the room. Cursing yourself for even going to this stupid thing. Getting in your car you throw on the jacket you brought and drive straight to the bar.

You need a drink or two and you need it now. The bar is mildly busy but not busy enough for it to be obnoxious. After taking a shot of vodka, you sip on a drink and sulk in at the bar. You never should have gone to that reunion. There was nothing for you there, just memories of 4 years of bullshit.

“Pardon me but is this seat taken?” You look up to see a man standing by you.

He’s hot. Really hot. Definitely older than you based on the salt and pepper hair. Not to mention the tight gray shirt and jeans that really make his ass look great.

“Go for it.” He sits down and orders a beer. You can feel him staring at you, not in a creepy way but more of a concerned way.

“Are you alright?” He asks as the bartender passes him his beer.

“Fine, just a shit night.”

“Tell me about it.” He raises his beer to you and you clink your glass.

What’s the harm in talking flirting with an attractive man who’s taking an interest in you. Absolutely nothing you think as you scoot your stool closer to him.

As the night goes on you get closer and closer to the man who you learned was named Joel. Joel was somehow single and had lived here since he was a kid. He owns a contracting business with his brother and he’s got a daughter but no wife. He’s touchy too. With your permission of course.

Asking you in that sweet and sexy voice if he can pull you closer. Soon the stools were ditched for a booth in the corner of the room. His hands that were once kept at his side were resting on your thigh.

You aren’t drunk, despite feeling woozy every time Joel looked you in the eyes. His beer is long gone and its clear both of you are interested in moving the night along.

“Did you drive here?” He asks as he hands the bartender his card to pay for your drinks.

“Yeah, but I’ve sobered up.” He frowns and shakes his head.

“I don’t feel right letting you drive after drinking. Tell you what,” He leans in close to your ear, his hands coming to rest on your waist.

“How about I take you back to my house, can’t let a pretty thing like you take an uber home now can I?” You bite your lip as his hands travel lower down your back.

“Sounds like a plan.” You push lightly on his chest to guide him to the door.

The drive is a blur as you sit in the passenger seat of his car. You’re both antsy as you shift in the seat. His hands clench the steering wheel making his veins pop.

All you can think about is what those hands will do to you in about 5 minutes. He pulls into his driveway and he doesn’t even turn off the car before you’re out and at his door.

“So eager.” Joel smirks as he opens his door.

The door shuts and Joel has you pressed against the floor. His lips are on yours as he roughly moves his hands to touch everywhere he can. You let out a small moan as he squeezes your ass. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Reveling in how fast he’s able to reduce you into a mess. Clothes are thrown on the floor without a care in the world as Joel leads you to his bedroom.

“On the bed baby, all fours.” He slaps your ass as you turn around making you jump.

As if he couldn’t get more sexy. You prop yourself on his bed, shaking your ass as you look behind you. Joel stares hungrily at your ass as he strokes his cock. Getting down on his knees he wraps his hands around your thighs and pulls you back. Teasing your pussy with his tongue.

“Fuck!” You gasp at the unexpected feeling. He locks you in place as his teasing turns into full on carnage. He’s not letting you breathe as he devours your cunt like a meal. His hands running up and down your ass, kneading it and slapping it as he pleases.

“Oh Joel!” Your head falls as pleasure courses through your body.

“Quit moving.” He scolds as he pulls you against his face. You’re practically grinding on it as he eats you out with utter precision. How this man is still single you’ll never know.

“Please please, wanna make you feel good Joel.” You whine as he pulls away from you. He wipes his face with two fingers and sticks them in his mouth as he stands.

“Fuckin’ delicous.” You nearly fold at the sight of it. Turning around you crawl towards him. His dick is big, bigger than you’ve ever had before but fuck you want it in every hole of your body. He tilts your chin up to look him in the eyes as he guides one of your hands to it.

“Don’t be nervous baby, you can take it.” Fuck yeah you can take it. His eyes close as you lick from the base to the tip. Pumping it with hard and firm strokes. Flashing him an innocent look you take as much of him as you can in your mouth.

“Fuckin’ warn a guy next time.” He groans as his hand comes to rest on the back of your head.

Pushing you as far as you can go on his cock. Strings of mumbled praises fall from his lips as you suck him off. Drool drips down your chin as you choke on his dick.

“Feels so good, so warm. Doin’ such a good job.” He pushes on your head and you make a noise as you gag slightly.

He looks down, worried he’s gone too far but there’s nothing but lust in your eyes. It takes all his willpower to pull out of your perfect mouth.

“Don’t wanna finish just yet.” He says, noticing the disappointed look on your face.

He manhandles your body back to all fours. He rips a condom from his wallet and puts it on with ease. Lot’s of practice you guess. He gets on the bed, admiring the view as he spits on his hand.

He strokes his cock for a few moments before sliding it in. He goes torturously slow but you’re thankful as it feels overwhelming. He’s so big and feels so fucking amazing.

“Oh god Joel,” You claw at the sheets as your lower half sinks down. Leaving you in a perfect arch. He grabs your hips and slides out, groaning at the sight of your cunt gripping him. Begging him not to leave.

“Fuck!” You cry as he slams his hips back in. His pace getting quicker the more noises you make. It’s egging him on, encouraging him to fuck you till you cry.

“So pretty.” Joel says smugly as he pounds into you.

He’s punching the breath out of you, filling you up with his cock. He grunts as he leans over you, one hand pushing your head into the pillows as he gets into a new position, one that makes his cock sink even deeper into you.

Your cries and moans are muffled by the pillow but it doesn’t matter. The feeling of being pinned down makes you want more. Not to mention the sinful sounds coming from Joel. He lets go of your head and you prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Need-fuck.” You reach back to grab his hand. He grunts in response as he refuses to let up his pace.

“Wanna ride you. J-Joel please!” you moan desperately.

While Joel is enjoying reducing you to a puddle, he can’t say no to that. You whine as he pulls out, already missing the feeling of his cock. He gently moves you to the side so he can lay down and helps you straddle him. Your legs feel shaky as you rest your hands on his chest.

“This view is even better than before.” He grins as he reaches up to squeeze your boobs.

“Can’t wait to watch these bounce.” He mumbles to himself. You slowly slide down on him.

His breath catches in his throat as you squeeze his cock. Using his chest as leverage you start to move up and down until you’ve found a good pace. Joel is mesmerized by everything.

The way his cock disappears as you slide down, the way your lips part with every gasp, the way your tits bounce. He wants this moment tattooed in his brain forever. He reaches up to play with your nipples as you continue to bounce on him. He notices a slight falter in your hips.

“Gettin’ tired?” He asks as he grabs your hips to stop you.

“Little bit,” You admit. Joel smirks as a wicked idea pops into his head.

“Let me take care of you alright?” You nod happily and Joel plants his feet on the bed. You thought he’d flip the two of you but he doesn’t. With all his force he thrusts up into you. Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull as he hits the perfect fucking spot.

“Joel!” You wail as he forces your hips to stay still. He fucks up into you relentlessly. Hitting a spot that makes your legs shake. Loud cries and moans are pulled from your lips as he thrusts up without a break. He want’s you to fucking break apparently.

“Gonna come?” Joel taunts. His fingers are digging into your hips as he nears his end.

“It’s okay baby, go ahead. I got you.” You can’t take it anymore as you fall into his chest. Wailing from pleasure as you come hard around him. Your cunt squeezes him tight.

Not letting him move as he comes from the sensation. For a moment the two of you lay there in silence. Out of breath and completely spent. With all the energy you can muster you prop yourself back up. You smile as you feel his cock pulsing inside of you.

“Need you to get off baby,” Joel mutters.

“Don’t wanna.” He huffs and groans as you sit back on him.

“Too sensitive.” With reluctance you climb off him and collapse on the bed. He rolls over and gently kisses the side of your head.

“Need anything?” He asks as he rubs your back.

You reply in gibberish and Joel laughs. It’s been a while since he’s fucked someone silly. You barely notice he’s left until he comes back with a towel and water. Gently cleaning you up and putting you under the covers. Helping you sip on the water until he’s satisfied.

“Good night baby.” He wraps his arm around your waist as you both drift off to sleep.

If you hadn’t woken up with a dull ache between your legs you would’ve sworn last night was a dream. But it’s all real when you wake up next to Joel. He’s so handsome when he sleeps. You could watch him for hours.

“Mornin’” He opens his eyes and smiles sleepily. His morning voice is to fucking die for.

“Hi,” You stretch your arms and climb out of bed. You stumble for a second and Joel chuckles.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Think that's my fault.” You roll your eyes head out of the room in search of your clothes. Joel watches you walk away with a smirk. As you pick up your clothes you frown at the punch stain.

“What happened?” You turn around to see Joel walk out in sweatpants, putting on a shirt as he walks over to you.

“It��s stupid, I had my 10 year reunion and some asshole threw punch on me.” Joel shakes his head as he grabs his keys.

“Funny, my daughter had her reunion yesterday too. Maybe y’all knew each other.” He says nonchalantly. You laugh

“Maybe.” “Hold on, let me get a jacket before we leave.” Joel disappears back into his bedroom.

You look around his house, at the pictures on the walls and the decorations. You see a photo of a young girl with a graduation gown on and a diploma above the picture. Must be his daughter.

As you get closer you start to recognize the girl. The cap and gown was the same color as yours was when you graduated. Same school. Same year too. Your heart drops as the realization sets in. You know that girl because it’s fucking Courtney. There’s no mistaking that.

You glance up at the diploma and her name is printed in big letters. Fuck fuck fuck.

There’s no way the guy you go home with ends up being her dad. You’d never seen her parents before so it’s not like you would have known. Joel didn’t tell you his last name either but even if he did Miller is an incredibly common name.

“Sorry for takin’ so long, ready?” Joel asks. You turn around and try to shake the shock from your face.

“Yeah,” Your brain runs a mile a minute as Joel helps you into his car.

It’s not like you’ve really done anything wrong. He’s an adult, you’re an adult. Everything was fully consensual and as much as you hate to admit it Joel was the best guy you’ve been with in a while.

And as sick as it sounds, you can’t help but feel a little smug. Even if Courtney never found out, you knew that you fucked her dad. Joel pulls up next to your car and you thank him for the night.

“I know this ain’t exactly typical, but I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go to dinner sometime. I had a real nice time with you.”

You think for a moment. Would it be right to go out with Joel knowing who he is? Would he get mad if he found out you did know his daughter? He makes you happy. He’s hot and a gentleman. Could you deny yourself the chance over a girl who hated your guts?

“You know Joel, I’d love to go to dinner.” He smiles as he hands you his phone to put in your number.

He bids you goodbye and waits for you to get in your car before driving off. Not even a few moments later you get a text from him.

Friday at 7? I know this great Italian place.

Sounds perfect. See you then :)

;)

This might become the messiest thing in your life, but for Joel you know it’s going to be worth it.

—-

part 2

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #wed!joel

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